"Drive, damn it!"
The driver hit the throttle again, and the rover lurched forward. In the same moment, the length of chain swept down, shattering the long side window. Warreven ducked away from the rain of glass, saw the driver duck, too, but the rover kept moving forward, picking up speed. The ranas dodged back, scattering in confusion, and the driver swayed upright again, sent the rover skidding down the narrow street. Warreven looked back, ready to duck again, and saw the ghost ranas standing in the roadway, miming laughter. Then the rover had turned the first corner, heading back toward the relative safety of Dock Row, and he straightened cautiously. He was shaking--he'd been lucky, the glass had missed him, but it had been close, too close--and leaned forward to touch the driver's shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, no," the driver said, his voice shaken. "Maybe--I will be."
Warreven looked into the mirror, saw the driver's face reflected, marked with a line of blood. The rover swung around the next corner and turned onto Dock Row, into the flickering lights of the dance houses. "Pull over, let me see."
The driver eased the rover into the curb, into the relatively steady light of a houselamp. Rather than risk the shattered glass that covered half the passenger seat, Warreven climbed out through the street-side door and came around the rover's nose to peer in the driver's half of what had been the window. Behind him, a few of the people who had been waiting in the doors of the bars and the dance houses moved a few steps closer, not knowing whether or not they would need to intervene. Warreven ignored them, stooped to lean into the empty window. "Let me see," he said again.
The driver turned to face him. The breaking glass had scored a long cut from cheekbone to jawline, and the blood was still welling sluggishly from it; there was more blood on his shoulder, staining the pale fabric of his shirt. "It's not so bad," he said, and fumbled for something in one of the storage compartments. "I'll be all right."
Warreven eyed him uncertainly, and a voice said, behind him, "Is everything all right?"
He turned to face a big man, the sort of ex-docker the rowdier wrangwys houses hired to keep the peace. He was staring at the rover with a kind of detached curiosity, as though he were wondering if they were going to bleed on his employer's property, or if they could safely be sent elsewhere. Warreven took a deep breath, wondering how to explain, and the driver leaned past him, putting his head out the smashed window.
"Belbarb. Thank the spirits it's you."
"Trouble?" the big man asked, looking at Warreven, and his hand went to the docker's hook stuffed into his belt beneath the loose fabric of his vest.
The driver nodded. "Yeah, but not with him. We ran into a ghost rana, the bastards--they smashed the window into me." He started to say more, winced, and pressed his shirt fabric against the cut. "Bastards."
Belbarb nodded, looked from him to Warreven. "Are you all right, mir?"
"Fine," Warreven answered, and shook his head, looking at the driver's face in the light from the houselamp. "That looks like it could use a weld."
The driver started to shake his head, but Belbarb said, "He's right, Fisk, that does need some work. I think Marrin's upstairs-- you can leave the rover here, I'll square the mosstaas."
Warreven took a step back as the driver opened his door, wondering what to do. He wanted to get home, he had work to do in the morning, but he had no desire to brave the ranas again, at least not yet-- Fisk stumbled, and Warreven caught his arm, steadying him. "Are you sure you don't want to go to a clinic?"
"Marrin's all right," Fisk said, and Belbarb nodded.
"He's an off-worlder, a medic, he--rents here. He knows what he's doing." His eyes swept over Warreven, across his chest and hips, came to rest on the metal bracelets. "You'll be wanting a drink, mir."
Warreven nodded. "Thanks. I'm Warreven. Stiller, of the Ambreslight mesnie."
"Belbarb Stiller." The big man nodded again, this time with approval, and stooped to take half of Fisk's weight. "Come on, Fiskie, let's get you inside. Illewedyr, go get Marrin, will you?"
Warreven followed them into the unexpected quiet of the bar. The music had stopped, drummers and a flute player standing idle beside the little dance floor, and the rest of the customers had gathered in fours and fives, muttering angrily. They were a mix of off-worlders and indigenes: another trade bar, Warreven thought, and leaned heavily against the bar. A thin, pale man with sun-darkened hands and face--Marrin, certainly--shoved his way through the groups to drop a medikit on one of the tables. The flute player did something with a control board, and one of the spotlights turned and tilted, catching the table in its light. Fisk sank into the waiting chair, and Marrin bent over him, muttering to himself. The noise rose in the bar again, angry voices tumbling over each other, and the bartender moved toward Warreven, her eyes still sliding to the table where the medic worked.
"What can I get you?" she asked, and seemed to catch some message from Belbarb. "It's on the house."
"Thanks," Warreven answered. "Bingo, if you have it."
Bingo was the strongest of the Haran liquors. The woman nodded and came back in a few seconds with a narrow glass half filled with the faintly cloudy liquid. Warreven drank half of it in a gulp, the stuff searing his throat, and took another, more cautious sip. "I suppose the mosstaas should be called."
"Oh, æ," Belbarb said, and lowered his bulk onto the stool beside Warreven. "We can call, but if they'll come--or if they'd do anything once they got here--well, that's the question, isn't it? Fisk's a dandi, and wry-abed to boot. Do you think they'll work on this one? Would you pay for it, mir?"
Warreven flicked a glance at him. So Fisk was a mem, and even the protection of the bars, the safety Temelathe had been preaching, didn't extend to calling in the law. But of course Belbarb was right, too: it was unlikely the mosstaas would do much for þim. "I will. I doubt it'll do any good, but I will. And put my name to the complaint, if that'll help."
"I doubt it," Belbarb said. "No offense, mir, but you're one of us."
Warreven sighed. "I agree, I doubt it'll help. But I think you ought to get it on record."
Belbarb glanced at the clock above the door, its round display showing the moon almost down, and the time floating above the star pattern. It was less than an hour to legal closing. "Let's wait until Marrin's finished, æ? Better all around."
"All right," Warreven said. The bar would be closing by the time the medic had finished welding the cut closed, and Fisk had had a drink or two to kill the pain and settle his nerves. Belbarb couldn't risk calling the mosstaas without driving off the off-worlders who didn't want to be known as players. Nothing would be gained by calling them earlier, anyway: if the rumors were true--and after tonight, he had no doubt that they were--Tend- lathe was protecting the ghost ranas, and the mosstaas wouldn't argue with him. I wonder if he's doing more than protecting them? he thought suddenly. Ten could have set this up, set me up.... It wasn't a pleasant thought, and he was glad to push it away. The timing was wrong, and he couldn't have known the rover's route. He and Fisk had just been unlucky, and there was enough of that in Bonemarche to go around.
Clan-cousin: (Hara) technically, a man or woman within one's own age cohort in the shared clan who is not otherwise related; in common usage, a man or woman of one's clan to whom one feels some tie or obligation, but to whom one is not more closely related; the use of the term generally expresses a sense of affection and kinship between the people concerned.
Mhyre Tatian
Warreven was late that afternoon, arriving with the end of the early rain, an insulated jug in one hand, disks and link-board in the other. Ȝe was still dressed in the clothes 3e had worn at the memore, a dull bronze silk tunic with a faint, geometric pattern woven into its surface, and 3er usual loose trousers. Ȝer hair was pulled back in an untidy braid, and Tatian wondered--not without some envy--where 3e had spent the night. Warreven smiled as though 3e'd read the thought and set the jug on Tatian's desk.
"
Help yourself, it's wiidwayk."
"No, thanks." To Tatian, the herbal brew tasted like sugared turpentine, though the indigenes seemed to drink it by the gallon.
"Suit yourself," Warreven said. Ȝe unstoppered the jug and drank, then set it aside, saying, "I'm sorry I'm late. I had--kind of a busy night and slept in."
Tatian wrinkled his nose as the smell of the wiidwayk drifted toward him. It seemed as though it had been months since he'd had a "busy night" of his own, since he'd broken with Prane Am, who still hadn't gotten back to him about the interface box. "No problem. I'm glad you're here, though. We need to get these papers signed." He was pleased with the speed with which the terms had fallen into place, once he'd confirmed his interest.
"I know." Warreven wrapped his hands around the jug, looked at it for a long moment. "The ghost ranas--on the way back from seeing Temelathe last night, a band of them broke in the window of my rover. Fisk--the man driving--got a nasty cut from the glass, and I ended up spending the night in a Harborside bar. And then I had to go to the mosstaas with him--no luck there, of course, but at least the complaint was filed."
"Jesus," Tatian said. "Are you all right?"
Warreven smiled again. "Fine--tired, but fine. And Fisk is all right, too. There was a medic there, an off-worlder, who took care of him."
"Glad to hear it," Tatian said. A player, he added mentally, automatically, but that doesn't make him any less competent.
"There is something you should know," Warreven said. "Before we sign, I mean. The Most Important Man wants me to, well, I suppose revise is the word, our contract, and he's prepared to make it as hard as possible for you to go on doing business here if I, if you, don't."
Tatian looked down at his desktop, at the screens scattered beneath the opaque surface. The profit projections lay on top, Mats' shipping report beside it--they had export permits and starcrates for the most valuable goods, and Mats was reporting that the indigenous Export Control Office was asking only a few hundred concord dollars in extra "fees" to process the remaining permits--and he shook his head slowly. "So far, we haven't had any trouble. And we always pay our way. What's the problem?"
"Reiss," Warreven said. "Or, more precisely, this case of ours, Destany and 'Aukai."
Tatian snorted. After all the effort he'd gone to--after the chances he was taking, standing up to the IDCA, risking NAPD's hard-won position on Hara--to be told that Warreven was backing out was too much. Warreven tilted 3er head to one side.
"I don't intend to change my position," 3e said. Ȝe laughed then, sounding genuinely amused. "I don't like being threatened, and anyway, it's not like I had any desire to run for seraaliste next year. I still want Reiss's statement, and as far as I'm concerned it's still part of the price. But I thought I owed you the warning."
"Why?"
Warreven blinked. "I prefer to do business when people understand all the risks. Besides, I like you."
"Thanks. But I meant, why stand up to Temelathe, especially now? Why does this case matter so much?" Tatian shrugged. "Look, I don't want to be rude, but there are a couple of cases like this every year. Can't you wait for the next one, if you want to make a point?"
Warreven looked away. The thick braid of 3er hair fell forward over 3er shoulder, and 3e worried at its end, twisting it between long fingers. The gesture seemed strangely familiar, and then Tatian remembered the woman he had been involved with on Joshua, long-limbed, long-haired Kaysa, who had done just that whenever she was nervous about something. It was no wonder he found Warreven attractive; 3e shared some of her tricks of movement and gesture.
"The truth?" 3e said, and let 3er braid fall back into place. "A lot of reasons, I suppose. I'm tired of waiting--after all, there's never going to be a good time, by definition, right? And it's not right. All Destany wants is to be with zher lover, that shouldn't be this difficult."
Tatian blinked, startled to hear the off-world pronoun, however badly pronounced, and Warreven sighed again.
"And on top of that, I don't like 'Aukai. I've never liked 'Aukai. So I don't want to give up on her case. And Tendlathe isn't Speaker yet, no matter what he thinks he is. So, I'm telling you now, Reiss's statement stays part of the bargain. If you don't want to take the risk--if you can't afford to stay in the game--" Ȝe spread 3er hands. "That's your choice, of course."
But you lose the harvest surplus. Tatian looked down at his screens again, at the numbers spread across the multiple files. Masani had already given er opinion; the final choice was, as always, up to him. The numbers are too good, the profit's too high to lose, he thought. If it's a real problem, e can transfer me next year, that ought to satisfy Temelathe--and I can't say I'd be that sorry to get off this crazy planet. . . . He stopped then, remembering Masani's words: 'I spent eight local years explaining myself,' e had said, but it was more than that, more that no one, not the IDCA and Col- Com, not the indigenes, had been able to see er as erself. That was the other factor in the equation, the joker in the pack. The system, trade, the whole bizarre two-gendered Haran worldview, was simply wrong; Warreven was right, the IDCA spent too much time trying to manage trade, and not enough time facing the implications of the system they were trying to control. If they really wanted to deal with HIVs, they could spend more of their time and effort looking for whatever it was that gave Harans their immunity. "I don't see any reason to change my plans," he said. "Reiss has said he wants to testify. As long as that holds true, I'll back him."
"Thanks," Warreven said softly, and then straightened, pushing the disks across the desktop. "Shall we get on with it, then?"
Tatian nodded, and ran his hand over the shadowscreen to bring the proper window to the surface. At the same time, the blockwriter whined to life, and he slipped the first disk into the reader's slot. There were no changes to the contracts--they had been straightforward enough; it had only been Reiss's testimony that made things complicated--but Warreven read through the last drafts a final time, head bowed over 3er screen. Then 3e nodded, and scrawled 3er name across the touchscreen, then added the codes that confirmed both 3er identity and 3er authority as seraaliste. The blockwriter whined again, copying the file and then sealing the disk, and Tatian allowed himself a sigh of relief. It was good to have them signed--good not to have to keep making and unmaking his decisions, good to be committed to this one. He said aloud, "I understand some of your offering is already in port?"
Warreven nodded, tipped 3er head to one side, the corners of 3er mouth turning up in 3er familiar almost smile. "I suppose you'd like to look at samples."
"I would."
"I thought you might," Warreven said. "I spoke to our captain, he'll be expecting us."
They took the company rover over to Harborside, left it parked on Dock Row in an empty lot beside one of the bars. It was open, and Warreven spoke briefly to the manager, a thin, worried-looking woman, before coming back to join Tatian. "She says it should be safe there, even with a company mark."
Warreven sounded less than certain, and Tatian sighed, thinking of his budget if he had to get the rover repaired. Still, his predecessor had bought the rover on-planet; it wouldn't be impossible to replace, he thought, and turned to look across the roofs of the Embankment to the docks below. The clouds had burned off, and the afternoon was unusually clear. Sea and sky were blue, flecked here and there with white, and the pale wood and stone of the Gran'quai itself seemed to glow in the harsh sun- light. The market in the foreground was almost empty, only the food sellers and a few vendors with carts snugged up to the power points on the southern perimeter; the rest of the stalls were empty, just painted white lines marking their divisions. The rana band was still there, though, still dancing on its makeshift stage-- only two drummers now, and a woman who held a flute--as was the audience. That was larger than Tatian had remembered, maybe fifty or sixty people, most of them wearing the bright ribbons that Warreven had said meant they were members of the band. There were dockworkers on the edge of the group, consp
icuous in their faded, practical clothes, and more were watching from the Gran'quai itself.
"I don't see the mosstaas," he said aloud, and Warreven glanced back at him. A few strands of hair had worked free of 3er braid and clung damply to 3er forehead.
"Over there," 3e said, and pointed. "By the Customs House."
Tatian looked again and saw three people--all men, by the look of them--standing in the arched doorway. They didn't seem to be doing anything, but people were giving them a wide berth, and then, there was the empty Market. "Trouble?" he asked, and Warreven shrugged.
"I don't think so. Come on."
Ȝe led the way down a narrow street--no stairs this time, but the pitch was still steep enough that Tatian wished there had been steps. They crossed the open Market, the drumming, a steady, even beat that kept the dancers moving in easy patterns, loud enough to drown conversation. Tatian felt the looks as they passed, the shifts of expression that registered an off-world presence, and for the first time, he was aware of the weight of the ironwood dockers' hooks that hung at people's belts. More people carried the tall sticks, ordinary wood rather than the fire-tempered ironwood, wound with multicolored ribbons: Not as deadly as the hooks, Tatian thought, but effective enough in a brawl. They seemed peaceful enough, however, mostly caught up in the rhythm of the drums, but he was still glad when they crossed the wide stone ledge that marked the edge of the Market and came out onto the wood of the Gran'quai.
The dock was crowded, the usual mix of sailors and dockers and factors, but not as busy, most of the dockers standing idle, clustered around their machines or beside the heaps of cargo. Halfway down the dock, hot air shimmered over a crane's engine compartment, and a little further half a dozen men and women wrestled a gangplank into place while the ship's captain watched from the stern rail, dividing her attention between the dockers and the ranas in the Market.
"We're down here," Warreven said. "Berth seven."
Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) Page 23
