Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction)

by Scott, Melissa

  Warreven made a face, pushed himself away from the rail. His bruises had stiffened while he stood there, and he had to catch himself against the door frame. Tatian stood watchful, not offering help, but within reach, and Warreven had to admit it was gracefully done. "Who is it?"

  Tatian shrugged, and Warreven looked at the screen. Chauntclere Ferane looked back at him, broad face and salt-stained beard framed by the darkness of a dockside office. The windows were closed behind him, light glinting from the narrow panes, but the noise of the drums was still loud, doubling the sound from the news channel.

  "Raven, it's me."

  Warreven looked around for the remote, and Tatian handed it to him. Warreven nodded his thanks and hit the button that activated his own camera. An icon lit, warning him that the transmission was now reciprocal, and Chauntclere flinched visibly.

  "God and the spirits, you look a mess."

  "I'm getting tired of hearing that," Warreven said, and immediately wished he hadn't. "I'm all right. It looks worse than it is."

  "It looks bad enough," Chauntclere said. The sun-carved lines at the corners of his eyes and between his eyebrows were suddenly prominent. "I thought--they said the ghost ranas had nearly killed you, but I didn't believe it."

  Believe it, Warreven thought. And a lot worse for Haliday. He said, "I'm--I will be all right. Hal was hurt a lot worse than me."

  "I'm sorry. Is she--?" Chauntclere stopped, as though he didn't know how to ask.

  "Ȝe's going to be all right," Warreven said. He saw Chauntclere's eyes flicker at the creole word and used it again deliberately. "That's why they attacked us, Clere, because 3e and I are herms."

  "And because of who you are," Chauntclere said automatically. "I mean, you're the seraaliste, and everybody knows Haliday--"

  "Everybody knows Haliday because 3e went to the Council to get the legal right to call 3imself a herm," Warreven said. "And they know me because I handle trade cases. The other herm who works with Haliday." Out of the corner of his good eye, he saw Tatian shift as though he were uncomfortable and made a face. "I'm sorry, Clere, it's been a bitch of a day."

  "Yeah." Chauntclere gave a slight, embarrassed shrug, one shoulder moving under the faded cloth of his working vest. "But Hal is going to be all right, isn't she--zhe?"

  Warreven nodded, and Chauntclere sighed with what looked like genuine relief.

  "I'm glad."

  And to be fair, Warreven thought, he probably was. There was nothing mean about Clere. He said, "Are you at the Harbor? What's going on down there?"

  Chauntclere glanced over his shoulder, turned back to the camera. "Oh, yes, I'm still on the 'quai. I can't get off, the ranas won't let me past--won't let any of us past, they say they won't let us off-load cargo until Temelathe agrees to the mosstaas hunting the ghost ranas. I heard about an hour ago that Temelathe was supposed to come down here himself to talk to the leaders, but I don't know if it's true."

  "Wonderful," Warreven muttered. Still, it might do some good: Temelathe knew how to balance the various factions; he had been doing it better than anyone else for almost thirty years.

  Chauntclere looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. "I've got to go, this is the only working line on the 'quai, and I can't hog it. But I'm glad you're all right."

  "I will be," Warreven said. "I'm glad you called, Clere--" The screen went dark before he could be sure the other had heard. He let himself sink back onto the couch, wondering how he'd fallen into the middle of all of this. Part of him wanted to be at the Harbor--he had earned that much, to see this through--but another part cringed at the thought of facing the darkened streets again. The memory of the ghost ranas returned, black robes and white faces, so that for an instant he could almost taste the fog and the shame and the fear. He made a face, as though that could erase the memory, and saw Tatian looking at him curiously. "I half-wish I was down there," he said defiantly, and Tatian gave a lopsided smile.

  "I bet. I think I'd rather watch the narrowcast, myself."

  "The other half is perfectly happy to," Warreven said. He looked at the screen again. "I wonder if Temelathe is going to try to negotiate with them?"

  "He'd be smart to, I think," Tatian said, pushing himself away from the wall and coming to collect the dishes that remained on the table. "Do you want anything?"

  Warreven started to shake his head, said instead, "No, thanks."

  Tatian nodded vaguely, and started for the kitchen. Warreven leaned back against the cushions, grateful for their softness, and watched the rainbows gather around the lights. The doutfire would be wearing off soon; he thought about asking Tatian to bring him some, but couldn't muster the energy.

  The media center buzzed again, startling him fully awake. He touched keys automatically, accepting the call, and frowned as a string of codes flashed across the base of the screen. The forming image split, dividing in half and then in thirds, and steadied. Three faces looked out of the screen, slightly elongated despite the system's attempt to keep the pictures proportional. Folhare he recognized at once; the other two, both men, were less familiar. He frowned, and then recognized the darker of the two. Losson Trencevent was one of the Modernists' regular speakers, one of the people who were usually seen on the narrowcasts and quoted in the broadsheets. He had never much liked Losson and didn't bother to hide his annoyance.

  "Folhare? What is it?"

  "Trouble," Folhare answered. At least, Warreven thought, she didn't start by telling him how bad he looked. "I--we need your help."

  Warreven looked from her to the others. Losson was looking at something out of sight, while the second man--Dismars Maychilder, he remembered suddenly, the Modernists' nominal leader, and their perennial candidate--was frowning impatiently. "What for?"

  "You know Losson--" Folhare began, looking sideways, and Dismars cut her off.

  "Temelathe is willing to negotiate. You--he likes you, and you're one of the Important Men. We need your voice as well, if we're going to get concessions on the Meeting."

  Warreven stared at the screen, looking past him at pale green walls with a delicate stenciled tracery of flowering vines. "I'm not exactly an Important Man," he said, and stressed the final word. "Does this include the wrangwys?"

  Losson drew an angry breath, and Dismars said quickly, "We've got a chance to get concessions on a lot of things, Warreven. There's no one issue. We should be able to get the big things through, that's the important thing."

  Which doesn't include me, Warreven thought. I should have guessed--should have known. "Folhare?"

  "What?" Her head lifted warily.

  "You're a fem, coy, as wrangwys as me. What do you say to me?"

  In the other two screens, he saw Losson start to roll his eyes, and as quickly suppress the movement. Dismars, more controlled, looked sideways as though he wanted to dictate Folhare's answer. And that, Warreven thought, was the real problem. If you weren't a man, you were a woman, and neither of the roles fit a herm. Neither role fit 3im--Haliday had known that for years, that was why 3e had gone before the Council. "Well, Folhare?" 3e said, and didn't bother to hide the cold anger that filled 3im.

  "I--" Folhare stopped, made a face. "No, I'm not completely happy, Raven. But this is the only chance we're going to get."

  And that was true, Warreven acknowledged, but it wasn't good enough. Ȝe tilted 3er head to the side, ignoring the streak of yellow light that shot across his vision, fixed his good eye on the split screen. "All right," 3e said. "I'll come down with you. I'll talk to Temelathe with you--not for you, you've been warned, but I will talk to him."

  "We need to present a united front," Losson said, and Dismars waved a hand at him.

  "I understand what you're saying. And I'm not ignoring your concerns, I promise. But Folhare's right, this is our best, maybe our only chance, to get to speak at the Meeting."

  "I'm on my way," Warreven said, and jammed 3er thumb down on the remote, switching off the machine. Ȝe pushed 3imself to 3er feet, still
furious, and saw Tatian standing in the door- way, frowning. "Don't tell me I shouldn't do this--"

  The off-worlder shook his head. "Do you want me to drive you? I've still got the rover."

  Warreven took a deep breath, silenced in the middle of 3er anger, and opened 3er mouth to say one thing, then shook 3er head, said simply, "Why?" Tatian blinked, looked almost hurt, and Warreven made a face, felt the anger rising again. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just--I'm not sure I understand. And I'll be damned if I'll accept it if it's pity, or you presuming to take care of me--"

  Tatian shook his head. "You're right. It's not that simple. The Concord went through this I don't know how long ago, and we've forgotten what it was like. But those people, they've missed what's really wrong here, and you're the only person I've met who does see it--well, you and Haliday. So I want to help." He shrugged, looked almost embarrassed by the sentiment. "And I doubt you could get a car tonight, even if you paid metal."

  Warreven nodded, appeased. It had never occurred to 3im that the Concord Worlds must have once faced the same issues, the same questions, what was and wasn't human, but it was reassuring to hear it said and to know what their decision had been. "Thanks. Yes, I'd like--I'd be grateful if you'd drive me. I just have to get some things."

  Ȝe pushed past Tatian into the hall and went into the kitchen to get more doutfire. Ȝer hands were clumsy on the lid, and it took 3im several seconds to shake loose another curl of the bark. Ȝe pocketed the rest of the box and turned back toward the door. The bathroom door was open, and 3e caught a glimpse of 3imself in the mirror above the tub: a thin person--herm--in black, one eye hidden by the black bandage. It was Agede's image, Agede the Doorkeeper, and 3e lifted a fresh bottle of sweetrum in salute. Agede looked back at 3im, Agede with his bottle and his cane, and Warreven smiled fiercely, knowing what 3e was going to do. Ȝe collected a walking stick from the bedroom--red, not black, but it would do--and went back to the main room, lifted 3er bottle to 3er reflection as 3e passed. Tatian, blond hair and beard golden in the light from the media center, looked at 3im uncertainly, and Warreven grinned.

  "I'm ready when you are."

  Tatian steered the rover through the darkened streets, empty except for the occasional--very occasional--hurrying figure. They ducked into doorways or side streets as the rover passed, and Tatian shook his head.

  "I don't like this. Are you sure--" He broke off then, shook away whatever else he would have said, but Warreven gave a rueful smile.

  "Am I sure it's smart, or am I sure I know what I'm doing?"

  "Either." Tatian negotiated the turn onto a narrow street, easing the rover around a shay drawn up to shield someone's main doorway.

  "I know what I'm doing," Warreven answered, and hoped it was true. At least, he thought, I know what I'm planning.

  Tatian nodded. "I don't want to try to get too close to the Harbor Market. Is there someplace we can stash the rover-- someplace we can get to, and get away from, fast, if we have to?"

  Warreven frowned, then nodded. "Take the next left."

  Tatian turned obediently, and the rover slid down a suddenly brightly lit street between rows of brick-fronted warehouses. The heavy doors--ironwood, rather than true steel, but strong enough to keep out all but the most determined looters--were barred, security lights flickering their warning above the lock plates. At the end of the street, however, a space opened abruptly, shallow, but wide enough to keep the rover off the main traffic way. A pair of shays, one with company marks, the other without, were already parked there, and Warreven nodded to them.

  "Good enough?" 3e asked.

  "How far are we from the Market?" Tatian asked; but he was already easing the rover into the space between the shays.

  "There's a stair-street right there," Warreven answered. "It leads down directly to the Market, comes out behind the auction platform--where the stage is now. Now a lot of people use it."

  Tatian nodded again. "All right. If we get separated, or if there's trouble, we get away and meet back here. With any luck, everybody will take other streets." He popped the rover's doors and levered himself out of the compartment.

  "You sound like you've done this before," Warreven said, and followed.

  Tatian sighed. "I got caught in a riot on Hermione when I was just starting out. It's not something I particularly want to repeat."

  "Who does?" Warreven said, pleased with the lightness of 3er voice, and led the way down the half-lit stairway.

  There was a shantytown at its foot, a cluster of maybe half a dozen shacks built with the cast-off wood of shipping crates and the occasional bright-blue sheet of plastic, tucked into the dubious shelter of a disused factory outbuilding. Warreven hesitated, but there was no easier way--and no time to turn back, 3e told 3imself, not if 3e wanted to get to the Market in time to deal with Temelathe. Behind 3im, 3e heard Tatian mutter a curse and ignored him, kept walking, setting an easy pace, down the last steps and out onto the paving.

  A low fire was burning on the patch of bare ground between two of the huts. The sound of the drums came clearly from the Market, and someone, no more than a slim shape behind the fire, was tapping out a counterpoint on a hand drum. Another figure--male, or maybe mem--stood silhouetted against the flames, bottle in hand. Warreven ignored them and kept walking, aware of Tatian at 3er back, all the muscles in 3er back and sides protesting the sudden knotted tension. Ȝe was expecting catcalls, or worse, but heard nothing except the stutter of the drum, and then even that fell away, so that 3e was moving in step to the drums at the Market alone. At the edge of the Market, 3e could stand it no longer and looked back, to see the shanty folk standing silent, the man and the drummer joined now by a woman, child on hip, and then another and another, gender blurred by the shadows. Not knowing certainly why 3e did it, Warreven lifted 3er bottle in salute and turned back to the Market. The murmur of a name followed, not his own, and 3e heard Tatian swear again.

  The Harbor Market was bright and abruptly crowded, light and shadow jagged against a sky black and emptied of stars. The crowd in front of the band platform was mixed, looked like a holiday crowd more than a protest, sailors and dockers in rough work trousers, wrap-shirts thrown on against the cool night air, dancing with ordinary people in rough-spun silks and shads. There were people from the wrangwys houses in a mix of ordinary and off-world clothes, and even a few genuine off-worlders, caught between curiosity and fear. Maybe a third of them--and every one of the odd-bodied, Warreven realized with a thrill of pleasure--wore the ranas' multicolored ribbons, every color, any shade of every color, but not black or white. The air was thick with smoke, smelled of charcoal and feelgood and spilled liquertie; at the foot of the Gran'quai, in front of the barricade, a bonfire was lit. The smoke of it rolled off toward Ferryhead, carried by the fitful wind, almost white against the dark sky.

  The band was drumming on the makeshift stage, playing a cheerful rhythm, a song 3e had danced to in the wrangwys houses. It still sounded festive, more of a celebration, Midsummer or Springtide rather than a rana protest, but then 3e saw the line of people between the bonfire and the barricade. They stood shoulder to shoulder across the end of the Gran'quai, and even at this distance 3e could see the firelight reflecting from metal--more metal than he had imagined the docks might possess, metal in chains, in bars, maybe even in the barrels of guns. The dull sheen reminded 3im of the ghost ranas, emphasized the defiant solidity of their stance, and 3e shivered, suddenly afraid again.

  "Are you all right?" Tatian asked quietly, and Warreven nodded.

  "Give me a minute," 3e said, and sank down on the nearest of the fused-stone bollards that marked the first ring of stalls. Ȝer eye was aching again, streaks of light searing 3er sight; 3er neck throbbed, a dull pain that promised worse to come, and the cut was burning where 3er clothes had rubbed the bandage. Ȝe grimaced, tugging at the waist of 3er trousers, and lifted the sweetrum bottle to 3er lips. It was almost empty already, and 3e caught a crazed glimpse of the sky,
a single pinpoint of light--a pharmaceutical satellite, almost certainly, not a star--blazing in a rainbow halo before 3e lowered the bottle. There was a flower lying at 3er feet.

  Ȝe looked at it, startled, and looked up to see a woman standing a meter or so away, two fingers to her lips in conventional acknowledgment of the spirits. For an instant, the gesture was shocking--3e had meant it, had courted that identification, but it had been a long time, a decade, maybe two since 3e had worn the mask of any spirit--and then training reasserted itself. Ȝe lifted the bottle in salute, and another flower, this one blue with a gold heart, landed beside the first. Ȝe nodded to that giver as well--a pot-bellied, well-dressed man in company badges, who should probably have known better--and pushed 3imself to 3er feet.

  "What's this all about?" Tatian demanded, but quietly, his voice pitched to carry only to Warreven's ears.

  Warreven glanced back at him, couldn't restrain a sudden wild smile. "They see Agede--the Doorkeeper, one of the spirits, one of the powerful spirits--not just me, and they see Agede is a herm, I'm a herm, and that, Tatian, is how I'm going to win."

  "Oh, my God," the off-worlder muttered, and the words were more than half a prayer.

  "Something like that," Warreven agreed, and started toward the bonfire. Ȝe could feel people watching, more and more of them turning to watch their progress through the glare of the lights; 3e could see, quite clearly, how the crowd parted for them.

  The sound of the band was louder than ever by the bonfire, more than one drum calling the various lines of the song, flute soaring above to carry the melody. People, men and women and the wrangwys, were dancing in the firelight, maybe half-following the orderly patterns of a traditional dance, the rest improvising in the confined space. Warreven smiled again, feeling the drums in 3er bones, feet automatically picking up the pattern, and a boy swung toward 3im, hands out to invite the dance. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, thin and hungry-looking, dark hair cut close to his skull. Seeing Warreven, his steps faltered, and Warreven held out 3er hands in answer, took the boy's cold fingers, and twirled him gently away. Ȝe caught a quick glimpse of the boy's face, open-mouthed, blank with shocked surprise, realized that he, too, was a herm. Ȝe smiled, and held out the almost- empty sweetrum bottle, tossed it toward 3er erstwhile partner. The boy--herm--caught it awkwardly, two-handed, and Warreven turned away, skirting the bonfire.