Shadow Man

Warreven had been drinking since the polls opened at noon—sweetrum and water, cut one-and-two so that he could barely taste the alcohol—but even so, he’d nearly finished the bottle. He glanced again at the media screen, lit but with sound muted, and turned away as soon as the count for seraaliste crawled along the bottom of the display. He was still winning—had already won, if he was honest with himself, and that meant that the clan’s profits were his responsibility for the next year, until Midsummer came round again. One local year, twelve kilohours by the off-worlders’ reckoning—twelve thousand and ninety-seven hours, to be precise—before he would be free again. But the harvest surplus was squarely in his hands, to sell where he pleased. Daithef wouldn’t approve of that, anymore than he’d approved of Warreven’s candidacy, and had spent the last few days of the campaign telling anyone who would listen that it would be a full year before Stiller’s profits would be safe again.

Warreven made a face—he wasn’t that incompetent, and in any case a barrel-back clam would do a better job than Daithef—but admitted that any deal with NAPD would have to be handled cautiously. The price would have to be to NAPD’s advantage if there was any hope of using the sale to force Tatian to allow Reiss to bear witness, but it couldn’t be too good, or he himself would lose credibility with the Stiller mesnies. His plan was beginning to seem more complicated than he’d anticipated; he grimaced again, putting the worry aside, and poured the last of the sweetrum into his cup. There wasn’t much left, and he added water to bring the mixed liquid almost to the rim of the cup.

In the screen, the image shifted, showing the Glassmarket cleared for the first night of the Stiller baanket. The major celebrations would take place tomorrow and the next day, over the two days of the Midsummer holiday, but tonight Stiller would welcome the clan and introduce the new officers to their people. He would have to attend, of course, but not for the full night. Once he had shown himself on the platform, along with the other officials, he would be free to do as he pleased, to celebrate like another Stiller. And what I please… not Reiss’s company, this time, but someone like me, another indigene. He reached for the monophone and punched in the codes before he could change his mind.

The routing codes jingled past, and then there was dead air while the last tone pulsed steadily. Warreven waited, counting, and was about to break the connection when a voice answered.

“Æ?”

The secondary screen lit, tardy, the image streaked with static. Warreven stared at it, at the visual pickup behind it, and said, “Hello, Chauntclere.”

“Raven.” Neither the tone nor the expression were welcoming. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

“If you must,” Warreven answered. Chauntclere Ferane stared back at him from the viewscreen, patently skeptical. His hair and short beard were streaked with salt stains, patches of odd, paler color, rust and amber and straw-gold, from a season spent aboard his tender. His crew, and the divers in particular, would be piebald from the mix of coral salts, wind, and the kelps they harvested. “It wasn’t my idea, Clere.”

“I believe you.”

“God and the spirits!” Warreven glared at the screen, and after a moment, Chauntclere looked away.

“Anyway, congratulations. It says a lot for Stiller that they elected a Modernist.”

It was a peace offering of sorts, though not strictly true—Warreven was more of a moderate, if not by Ferane then by Stiller standards—and Warreven nodded, accepting it as meant. “Thanks. And, speaking of celebrations, how would you like to go to the first-night’s baanket with me? We wouldn’t have to stay long, and I thought we could hit some of the harbor bars, maybe a dance house or something, afterward.”

There was a little silence, and then Chauntclere shook his head, mouth twisting in a grimace that was intended to be a smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, I just wanted company.”

“And to hit the bars, and screw around afterward,” Chauntclere said. He shook his head again. “I don’t think so.”

Don’t flatter yourself, Warreven thought, but knew better than to say it. It would take months to talk Chauntclere out of his anger—and besides, that was exactly what I meant. I can’t slap at him for getting it right and saying no. He said, “Clere—”

“Some other time,” Chauntclere said. “You know that, you know I want to see you. Just—not tonight, not at the baanket. It wouldn’t look right, not for you, not for me.”

“Would you meet me after?”

“I—don’t know,” Chauntclere said. “Where are you going?”

“The Embankment, probably, probably to Shinbone,” Warreven answered.

Chauntclere made a face and looked away. “If I’m there, I’m there, but don’t expect me. I’ve got the boat to think about.”

Warreven sighed, acknowledging a half truth: sailors did care not what their captains did, but that certain proprieties were observed. And two of the most important rules were no trade, and sleep wry-abed in foreign ports, not at home. “All right. Did you hear anything about Catness? That was the other reason I called.”

Chauntclere answered the lie with a quick grin, but said only “I told you, I don’t know him. And I haven’t run into anyone else who does—I doubt he’s a diver, no matter what he says, or not a very good one. I’ll let you know, though, if I hear anything.”

“Tell Malemayn,” Warreven said. “I’m not handling the case anymore.”

“All right.”

“Thanks,” Warreven said, and broke the connection.

In the main screen, a team of faitous were stacking the last cord of wood into the main balefire; a second group, supervised by a vieuvant in black and someone in traditional dress who had to be part of the outgoing clan administration, were draping the smaller fires with braids of feelgood as thick as a man’s arm. Behind them, women in traditional dress were loading clay kettles with mealie-fruit and gollies the size of a man’s fist, while other women, more practically dressed, fed the cooking fires and the stone grills set up behind the serving table. Warreven wondered what the fatuous commentators were saying, how they were explaining the quaint indigenous customs for the off-world audiences, but didn’t bother to turn up the sound. Instead, he touched keys again, typing in another mail code, and waited while the system routed his call. The holding tone sounded twice, and then the secondary screen lit again.

“Yes?” Folhare’s face in the screen was dark, hawk-nosed, strong in its cold beauty.

“Hello, Folhare,” Warreven said, and felt the old familiar fondness steal over him. If she had been a man, or he a woman—and as always put aside the knowledge that the latter, at least, was a kind of possibility, that his calculations were based on unreal gender—he, at least, would have pursued. “How’d you like to come to tonight’s baanket with me?”

Folhare blinked once, still smiling, and cocked her head to one side. “This is sudden, coy, what’s brought this on?”

“I don’t want to go by myself,” Warreven answered.

“So who turned you down?” Folhare’s smile turned wry.

“Is that fair?” Warreven demanded, and made himself sound more indignant because it was true.

“I suppose not. Are you—I can’t imagine this would be entirely smart, Raven.”

“I wish everyone would stop minding my business,” Warreven said.

“So someone did turn you down,” Folhare said, with mild satisfaction. “Clere?”

“Does it really matter?” Warreven forced a smile. She was right, of course: bringing her as his guest would be deliberate provocation, but in his present mood, it seemed the thing to do. “I would like your company, Folhare.”

There was a little silence, Folhare still with her head tilted to one side in question, and then she sighed, straightening. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you might want to know there’s going to be a presance at the baanket.”

“Ah.” Presance was a new word, a Modernist word; it meant the sort of performances the ranas had always given, drums and dancers and singing, but the songs of a presance generally had a more focused sting in their lyrics. “How—?” Warreven began, and then shook his head. “You made the dance-cloth.”

“I painted the banner, actually.”

“Well, then.” Warreven spread his hands, nearly knocking over the now-empty cup. “Don’t you want to see what happens?”

Folhare grinned. “I do, but I don’t want to cause you trouble. Or me, for that matter.”

“It’s over for both of us,” Warreven said. “No one would expect any of the makers to show up—except the dancers, that is—and I could use female company.”

“As if I count.”

“The law says,” Warreven began, and Folhare made a sound of contempt, as though she would have spat.

“The law, as you’ve quoted me more than once, is an ass. Oh, hells, yes, I’ll come. When do you want me?”

“We hired a coupelet to take us to the market,” Warreven said. “Malemayn, Haliday, and anybody they invite, and me. I’ll pick you up at eighteen-thirty, if that’s all right. We should miss the worst of the crowds.”

“And still get the best of the baanket,” Folhare said. “I’ll be ready.”

“Thanks, Folhare,” Warreven said. “I’ll be glad of your company.”

“Say that again when this is over,” Folhare said, and broke the connection.

Warreven replaced the monophone’s handset, wondering if he was making a mistake. The other Important Men and Women of Stiller would be there, and he would be compared to them, not just by the Stillers in Bonemarche, but by the rest of the clan in the mesnies north of the city. But then, they would probably be delighted to see him with any woman, even one as unlikely as Folhare Stane, he told himself, and went into the bedroom to change for the baanket.

He shared the coupelet with Haliday, Malemayn, and a dark, lively woman who was introduced as Lyliwane. She was well named: even with her hair piled into festival braids, she was still a hand’s width shorter than Malemayn’s shoulder. Warreven, who was no better than average height, felt suddenly tall and gangling next to her. Both she and Malemayn were elegant in holiday finery; Haliday wore off-world clothes as usual, 3er only concession to the occasion a bright embroidered sbaal wrapped man-style around 3er hair. The driver took them wide around the Harbor Market, and swung down the main street of Startown—uncrowded, for once; most of the off-worlders were either home, or already at the Glassmarket—heading for the row of former warehouses that had been converted to housing along the southern edge of the district.

Folhare was waiting in the opening of what had been the loading bay, tall and elegant in a tight bodice and a tiered skirt, the traditional clothes and the profusion of cheap dower jewels—ear-rings, necklaces, a dozen glass bracelets—incongruous coupled with her close-cut hair. An old woman sat at the other side of the open bay, dividing her attention between the street and the cone of silk and the netting hook in her lap. Children were playing somewhere back in the shadows, their voices clear and distinct as Malemayn opened the coupelet’s door, but the sunlit forebay was empty except for the old woman. Folhare gathered her skirts around her and stepped carefully down the stairs to the street. Warreven, leaning past Haliday to greet her, saw the old woman frowning, her hands for once still on the hook.

“Who’s she?” he asked.

Folhare lifted her skirts to mid-thigh, freeing her legs to climb into the coupelet’s crowded compartment. “A sort-of cousin, or maybe an aunt. Her name’s Sawil, she wants to be mother to us all.”

“And she doesn’t approve of Stiller?” Warreven asked, and edged over to make room for her.

“She doesn’t approve of me,” Folhare answered. “Celebrating Stiller’s baanket is about the least of my sins.”

There was no need for introductions: Bonemarche’s active Modernists were still a small enough group that most people who were involved in politics had met all the others at one point or another. Warreven leaned back against the padded seat as the driver kicked the coupelet into motion, and Malemayn touched his shoulder.

“Want some?” He held out a bright green paper cone filled with a mix of poppinberries and creeping stars and the hot red seeds of the vinegar tree.

“Thanks,” Warreven said, and took a handful of the roasted berries, crunching them one by one to release the drop of painfully sweet dew concentrated at the center. Folhare waved away the cone, but Lyliwane took a larger helping, began eating them in order, berries first, then the seeds, and finally the creeping stars.

“As if we’re not going to get enough at the baanket,” Haliday said, but 3e, too, took a few of the berries.

As they got closer to the Glassmarket, the streets became more crowded, and normal traffic, shays and three-ups and draisines, vanished, leaving only jiggs and the occasional coupelet to compete with the pedestrians. Nearly everyone was heading in toward the marketplace; Warreven saw a single shay, marked with the glyph of one of the lesser pharmaceuticals, stranded at a corner, trapped by the pressure of bodies and the steady movement. The driver, an indigene, leaned forward to rest both arms on the steering bar, obviously prepared to wait it out. His passenger’s face was in shadow, almost invisible, but a hand tapped impatiently against the shay’s body. Their own coupelet slowed, gears grating, and Malemayn winced.

“Maybe we should walk from here.”

“Whatever.” Warreven looked at the others, and Haliday shrugged. Lyliwane extended one tiny foot to reveal high-soled summer clogs.

“Believe it or not, I can walk in these.”

“Let’s,” Malemayn said, and hit the intercom button without waiting for an answer. “You can let us out here, the traffic’s getting too bad. After that—enjoy the baanket, we won’t be needing you to get home.”

“Thank you, mir. At your pleasure, miri.” The driver’s voice crackled back through the tinny intercom, and a moment later, the coupelet ground to a halt. He didn’t bother pulling to the side of the road; there were no other vehicles to worry about, and the crowd flowed past it like water around a rock. Malemayn popped the side door, levering himself out into the crowd, and turned with forgetful courtesy to offer his hand to Haliday. Ȝe ignored him, but both Folhare and Lyliwane accepted the help in struggling out of the low compartment. Warreven followed them, slamming the door behind him. The taste of the creeping stars was strong on his tongue, bitter and sweet, like burned sugars. The afterimage was there, too, a faint haze of color around the stores’ lights, and he watched his feet for a minute, until he was sure he’d adjusted to its effects.

They left the coupelet behind them quickly, walking with the flow of the crowd toward the Glassmarket’s open hexagonal plaza. Six blocks away, Warreven could hear the beat of the drums and the shrill two-toned call of flat-whistles; as they got closer, it was all he could do to keep from dancing with them. Ahead of him, a woman—no, he thought, a fem—in tunic and trousers broke into a quick skipping step, and the men with her laughed and applauded. She bowed, too deeply, and her shaal slipped, so that she had to snatch it up from the dust, and nearly overbalanced in the process. One of the men caught her, still laughing, and as she spun in his arms, Warreven saw her eyes white and staring, and the mark of Genevoe on her face. She was already flying, high on hungry-jack or sundew, the Trickster’s own drugs, and Warreven glanced curiously at Folhare, wondering if this was part of the planned presance.

Folhare saw the look and leaned close, her words all but drowned in the genial noise of the people around them. “No, she’s not, and I don’t thank you for thinking it. Ours is to be done stone sober, or—certain people—will know why.”

Easier said than done, Warreven thought, but they had reached the edge of the Glassmarket, and he caught his breath in startled delight. Even expecting it, even having seen it before, the sight of the Glassmarket filled with Stillers—all his kin, in some way, all somehow family—was enough to make him momentarily glad of his allegiance, and for an instant he could almost look forward to his time as seraaliste. Normally, the sunken floor of the market was filled with vendee, market folk who had held their spots for generations. Some still sold glass, though not as many as before, and on a clear day the center of the market glittered like flame, sunlight sparking from finished goods and the rods and spheres of raw glass sold to other craftsmen. The Madansa, the spirit of the markets, painted on the wall of the warehouses overlooking the marketplace carried spheres of glass in each hand and wore a glass crown on her braided hair. There had been a field of glass under her feet, but sun and hands, touching the images for luck, had worn away the paint.

The character of the market had changed, anyway. The lesser vendee—the majority, now—sold fabrics, clothes, and quilted coverlets to a mix of indigenes and off-worlders. A few, the upstarts who held spaces along the perimeter, sold off-world goods, but most of that trade was confined to the Harbor Market and the Souk. Tonight, however, and for the next two days, the stalls and carts had been hauled away, and the plaza was filled with people instead. Their silks glowed under the massive lights, haloed and refracted by the creeping star’s effects; the same light glittered from glass and shell jewelry, and gleamed from the ribbons that tied the wreaths of flowers. Beyond the crowd stood the platform where the Important Men and Women, clan officers and heads-of-mesnie, would stand for the announcements, and below them, mostly hidden by the mass of people, were the tables of the baanket itself. The cooks and tenders—there would easily be a hundred of them, probably more—were invisible, too, but the smell of the food proved their presence. The weigh platform, where bulk goods were sold under the eyes of city and clan officials, had been covered over by a temporary staging, and the first of the bands was playing, their music lost except for the drumbeat and the occasional shrilling of the whistles.

“Here,” Malemayn said, and Warreven turned, startled, to seethe other holding out a wreath of catseyes. Lyliwane, laughing at his side, wore two great sprays of the flowers tucked into her crown of braids.

“Æ?”

“For you,” Malemayn said, and set it precariously on Warreven’s head.

“I don’t need flowers,” Warreven said, adjusting it anyway. Looking around, he could see half a dozen other couples wearing them, all officially, passing for men and women, though he thought he saw at least one other herm, and maybe a plump mem, among the group. He scowled, reaching for the wreath, and Malemayn shook his head.

“You’re our seraaliste now, Raven, our very own Important Man. You should be wearing.” He turned to Folhare. “And for you, mirrim.”

Folhare took the wreath he held out to her, slung the bright blue flowers like a necklace across her shoulders. “Where’d you get it? It’s lovely.”

“There was a boy selling them,” Malemayn said, and gestured vaguely toward the crowd behind him. Warreven looked and saw a thin herm holding a basket piled high with greenery. Boy, indeed, he thought, and the flower seller winked at him. He smiled back, temper somewhat restored, and looked away again.

“You’re taking this a little seriously,” Haliday said, but 3e was smiling. Ȝe, too, wore a crown of catseyes, the vivid yellow bright against 3er black hair. “And, speaking of Important Men, you, Raven, should be getting to the platform, I think.”

Warreven made a face, but had to admit 3e was right. The platform was filling up with dignitaries; it was time, he supposed, to take his place with them. He looked to his right, over the heads of the crowd, and saw the windows and narrow balconies of the White Watch House crammed with bright-clad figures: Stanes and their Maychilder kin-by-marriage and the occasional Landeriche or Delacoste, come to watch the Stiller display from an appropriate distance and to judge its probable cost and the clan’s generosity. There were a few duller figures, too, drab among the locals: off-worlders, almost certainly pharmaceuticals, who were Temelathe’s guests. Tendlathe would be there, too. “I hope they enjoy the show,” he said, and held out his hand to Folhare, less as a courtesy than to keep from getting separated in the crowd.

Folhare took it, her fingers cool in his, leaned close again as they started toward the platform. “I guarantee they’ll be—impressed.”

~

Woman: (Concord) human being possessing ovaries, XX chromosomes, and some aspects of female genitalia; she, her, her, herself.

Mhyre Tatian

Tatian stood on one of the narrow balconies of the White Watch House, his shoulder jammed painfully against the coarse brick of the building shell, and wondered if carved ironwood was really strong enough to hold the seven adults who filled its platform. The single child, no older than sixty-nine or seventy kilohours, hardly seemed large enough to count. He pressed himself harder against the bricks as the child wriggled past, disappearing back into the main room, and waved away a faitou offering a tray of feelgood wrapped for stick smoking. The other people crowding the window greeted her gladly, and he winced at the acrid cloud that cloaked the balcony for an instant before the wind carried it away.

“So, Mir Tatian,” a familiar voice said, and Tatian turned awkwardly to face Wiidfare Stane, a glass beaker of liquertie in his hand. “I’m glad you could make it this year.”

“My pleasure,” Tatian answered, and hoped the Licensing Officer couldn’t hear the insincerity in his voice. Wiidfare had invited him every year before, as he invited all the off-world heads-of-station, and every year Tatian had refused—until now. And I wouldn’t be here this time if Reiss hadn’t managed to piss off Stane and involve me in it. The party was a blatant display of Stane’s power—Stanes and off-worlders standing together to lookdown on the celebration of a lesser clan—and Tatian, who did a great deal of business with Stiller mesnies, had never felt it was entirely wise to attend.

“But you’re not drinking,” Wiidfare said. “Let me get you something.”

From most other Harans, Tatian thought, regarding the other man with detached dislike that would be mere forgetfulness, an inappropriate courtesy that he wouldn’t mind declining. But from Wiidfare, it was always a challenge. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, and met Wiidfare’s ill-concealed sneer with a bland smile.

“Surely a little sweetrum-and-water won’t hurt.”

The voice was unfamiliar, but the face was not. Tatian nodded warily to Temelathe’s son, said, “Mir Tendlathe.”

Tendlathe lifted a hand, summoning one of the hovering faitous. He was a slender man, willowy where his father was solid, and Tatian had to make an effort not to glance down, looking for a herm’s breasts and hips. In any case, Tendlathe wore a narrow, neatly trimmed beard and moustache: it wasn’t an infallible indicator, but it was a sure guarantee of legal gender. A bonne-faitou came scurrying, ironwood tray held at waist height, and Tendlathe gestured expansively. “Do try some, ser Mhyre, I think you’ll find it to your liking.”

“Since you insist,” Tatian said, in his most colorless voice, and lifted the jug that stood in the center of the tray. He sniffed it—odorless, and probably just water, though one could never be entirely sure on Hara—and then added it to one of the glasses, cutting the sweetrum even more. He set the jug back, murmuring his thanks to the bonne, and smiled at Tendlathe. “Your health, mir.”

The Haran tipped his head in graceful acknowledgment. Tatian sipped carefully, barely letting the liquor past his lips, and was glad to see that Tendlathe, at least, had told the truth. With the additional water, the sweetrum was tolerable even to an off-world metabolism.

He looked away from Tendlathe and Wiidfare, back out over the crowds filling the Glassmarket. He had been unable to pick out Warreven among the candidates presented; there had been several people, all passable men, who wore their hair loose and ragged as Warreven had done, and it had been impossible to recognize anyone’s face at this distance. The speeches—which had been inaudible, anyway—seemed to be over now, and the action was divided between the tables where the food was served and the side platform where the band was playing. Just the drums were audible, their rhythm vying with the inchoate noise of a thousand voices.

“Impressive, isn’t it, mir?” Tendlathe said.

Tatian made a noncommittal noise, a Haran proverb dancing in his brain: never praise Stane to Stiller, or Stiller to Stane.

“It’s nothing to Gedesrede, of course,” Wiidfare said, “but it’s nice enough.”

“I’ve heard quite a lot about the Gedesrede baanket,” Tatian said. He judged it was time to establish some sort of common ground. “Our—NAPD’s—chief botanist is a Stane.”

“I assume she’s on her way home now, then,” Wiidfare said.

Tendlathe said, as if he hadn’t spoken, “Which mesnie?”

“Riversedge,” Tatian answered. “And yes, Mir Wiidfare, she and Mats are heading up there in the next few days.”

Wiidfare started to sneer, but Tendlathe silenced him with a quick look. “That makes us kin,” he said, and grinned at Tatian’s quickly suppressed look of disbelief. “Closer than just Stane and Stane, I mean. My mother was from Riversedge, and I was practically fostered there. What’s her name? I’ll have to look for her.”

“Derebought Stane.” There was no point in using her compound name, Stane-Lanhos; Harans didn’t recognize the form—one more thing they didn’t admit to—and the reminder of her off-world marriage might undo all the good this conversation had done.

“Derebought,” Tendlathe repeated. “I’ll certainly look for her.”

Tatian nodded, not knowing quite what to say, not sure why Tendlathe was going out of his way to speak to him, and glanced out over the Glassmarket again. Something was moving on the fringes of the crowd, by the band platforms. He frowned, trying to make out what was happening, and saw movement among the drummers on the platform. Someone—the figure was totally indistinct at this distance—climbed or was lifted up to join them. There was a moment of confusion, and then the newcomer lifted a bright white-and-yellow disk drum over his or her head, began beating out a new, insistent rhythm. A banner rose at the back of the platform, nearly toppling a drummer, and unfolded on multiple supports to reveal painted shapes maybe twice life size. Tatian squinted at them, trying to read their elliptical message—they looked like yet more representations of the ubiquitous spirits, the interpreters to humans of Hara’s distant God—and heard Wiidfare mutter something.

“—fucking Modernists.”

Tatian glanced over his shoulder, startled by the vehemence of his tone, and saw Tendlathe’s hand close on the other indigene’s arm. His expression didn’t change, handsome face still smiling faintly, but Wiidfare winced, and Tatian saw Tendlathe’s knuckles pale as his grip tightened further.

“This is Bonemarche,” he said, and his voice sounded strangely tight, only a ghost of its earlier ease remaining. “Things are different in the mesnies. They wouldn’t stand for this there.”

Tatian looked back toward the banner, now fully opened, five figures—not the spirits after all, he thought, but more like caricatures of the five sexes, a Concord motif given a new, uniquely Haran shape—stood hand-in-hand against a stylized background of sea and sky. More figures, most in traditional dress, a couple in dull gray that might have been meant to stand for off-worlders, posed in front of the banner, but he was too far away to understand their mime. Uniformed mosstaas started to shove their way into the crowd, but the Stillers blocked their way: the protesters had chosen their moment well. He heard a laugh behind him, hearty, and sounding genuinely amused.

“They’ve got heart, the Stillers,” Temelathe said, “and brains. Not a milligram of common sense in the entire clan, but kilograms of brains.” He edged out on the balcony, distance glasses in hand, and the other Stanes scrambled to give him room. Tatian found himself pushed back against the doorway, the edge of the bricks digging painfully into his spine.

“It shouldn’t be allowed, my father,” Tendlathe said. He was still smiling, as though he’d forgotten to let his lips move; the expression looked ghastly against his sudden pallor, brown skin drained of blood. “It’s disrespectful to you, and to Stane. The mosstaas—”

Temelathe laughed again, as though his son had never spoken. “God and the spirits, that’s clever. And the one doing me’s very good.” He lowered the glasses, looked behind him, shrewd eyes—eyes that weren’t laughing at all, Tatian noticed—sweeping across the mixed crowd of Stanes and Maychilders and off-worlders. “Take a look, ser Mhyre, it’s almost a shame you’re missing the performance. Not that we aren’t delighted to have you here, of course.”

He thrust the glasses almost into Tatian’s face, and the younger man took them mechanically. He couldn’t refuse; it was less an offer than an order, and he thumbed the tuning wheel, buying the seconds he needed to get his own expression under control. Any pharmaceutical, any off-worlder, would have done anything for this display of Temelathe’s magnanimity, he thought. Why the hell did it have to be me? He raised the glasses, focusing the double lenses on the banner, and the scene beneath it leaped into sharp focus. A group dressed as men and women, though their bodies very obviously didn’t match their clothes, clustered in the center, watched by the two “off-worlders.” A man in overdone jewelry—and he was obviously meant to be Temelathe, from the padded shoulders and chest and coarse black and gray wig to the tricks of stance and gesture—was sorting the people in traditional clothes into pairs, matching “male” to “female” regardless of real gender or the mimed wishes of the people. Before he’d finished sorting, however, one of the “off-worlders” tapped him on the shoulder, pointed to a “man” who had been padded to resemble a herm. “Temelathe” shook his head, and the “off-worlder” offered something that looked like a purse. “Temelathe” took it, nodding vigorously, and shoved the “herm” toward the “off-worlder.” It was the most blatant representation of trade, and Temelathe’s connections to trade, that Tatian had ever seen on Hara.

“You see,” Temelathe said. “They are good, aren’t they?”

“They seem—talented,” Tatian answered, and handed back the glasses, wondering what he should have said. The Old Dame would have known, but %e was on New Antioch, and he was responsible for %er business here.

Temelathe laughed, throwing his head back, and a few of the other Stanes managed to laugh with him. Tendlathe lifted both eyebrows in disbelieving disdain. His color was coming back a little, but his mouth was still set in that faint, unreal smile.

“They are talented,” Temelathe said, still grinning hugely. “Clever and talented, that’s Stiller for you. No sense, but clever as monkeys. Of course, good mimics don’t make good actors, do they, ser Mhyre? And Lammasin Stiller’s a really talented mimic.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Tatian said, stiff-lipped. He felt a chill run through the room.

Tendlathe said, “The mosstaas should clear the market.”

Temelathe shook his head. “Nonsense. Let Stiller—let the Modernists, it’s not even all of Stiller, though it will be if I turned the mosstaas on them—let them have their day. It won’t matter.”

“This is what happens when you let people like Warreven have their say. Yes, it matters,” Tendlathe said, and his father took him firmly by the arm. Tatian saw the younger man flinch before he had himself under control again.

“It doesn’t, and it won’t,” Temelathe said firmly. “Let it be.” He looked around the room, visibly gathering his people. “Come, come, the first remove must be ready. Time and past for us to be fed.”

Most of the Stanes trailed obediently after him. Tatian waited in the doorway until the people on the balcony had filed past him and followed more slowly.

“Christ.” The voice and the curse were off-world, and Tatian turned to find Chavvin Annek at his elbow. She was the head of operations at the port, one of the most important off-worlders on Hara, someone whom even Temelathe would not want wantonly to offend; even so, Tatian wished she would keep her voice down.

“That’s a nasty thing to do to Lammasin,” she went on. “That was meant to travel, that little verdict. He’ll have a hard time finding work now. Or worse.”

Tatian stared at her, unable quite for an instant to believe what she was saying. But this was Hara, and Temelathe did have that kind of power—and there was nothing at all that he or Annek could do about it.

He touched her arm gently, turned her toward the dining room. “Dinner, Annek.”

“He’s a friend. Lammasin, I mean. Oh, damn it, I’ve got to get word to him.”

“He’s bound to hear soon enough,” Tatian said.

“Not necessarily.” Annek shook her head. “This could mean real trouble for him.”

“I take it he’s not on the net?”

“No.” Annek lowered her voice. “Tatian, I need to ask a favor. I’ll owe you for it, I promise.”

Tatian looked warily at her. Having the port’s head of operations owe him a favor could be a very useful thing, certainly, but he’d already been warned away from Haran politics. “If I can, I will,” he said, and hoped it would be something reasonable.

“When we’re done here, and it can’t be soon enough, I’ve got to find Lammasin, warn him, before that bastard Tendlathe sets the mosstaas on him,” Annek said. “I don’t want to run the Dock Row bars alone. Will you come with me?”

Tatian hesitated. He could escort her safely enough—and it wouldn’t do him any harm to be seen to be a friend of Chavvin Annek’s this time of year, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. “All right,” he said. “Now, dinner. Before someone wonders where we are.”

Annek sighed, forced a smile. “You’re right, and thank you. But I can’t say I’m very hungry.”

“Nor am I,” Tatian answered, and they went on together into the brightly lit dining room.

~

Herm. (Concord) human being possessing testes and ovaries and some aspects of male and female genitalia; 3e, 3er, 3im, 3imself.

Warreven

For once, the sky had stayed clear for most of the baanket. As he and Folhare crested the hill above the Harbor Market, he could look across the lights of the harbor and see the brightest stars vivid against the seaward horizon. Only a few wisps of night haze obscured the familiar patterns; the moon was almost down, its thin crescent blurred by a thicker streak of cloud.

“A gorgeous night,” he said, and Folhare grinned.

“In more ways than one.”

Warreven smiled in response, and the land breeze strengthened, bringing with it the sound of drumming from the Glassmarket. A whistle shrieked, shrill and raucous, but then the wind eased, and the drums faded again. “Do you think the presance did any good?”

“It certainly got people’s attention,” Folhare said lightly.

“Seriously, Folhare.”

She didn’t answer for a moment, the only noise the click of her shoes against the paving. They were still a hundred meters above the Embankment, where the bars and dance houses stayed open all night, farther still from Dockside and the Gran’quai, where ships loaded and off-loaded cargo without regard to the clock. Warreven was suddenly aware of the empty street, the dark side alleys, and glanced reflexively behind him—but the night of the baanket was usually fairly quiet. Even so, he wasn’t sorry to see the blue glow of a police light on the side of a building a few meters farther along, marking an emergency summons box. Not that the mosstaas would be much help—it was always anyone’s guess if they would actually respond to a call, though the better districts paid a service fee to make sure of it—but the automatic alarm would wake anyone sleeping in the apartments above the shops and warehouses, and people were usually quick to keep the peace in their own neighborhoods.

“I hope so,” Folhare said at last. “I do think so. It made the issue pretty clear—and if nothing else, it got them laughing at Temelathe. That’s something, anyway.”

Warreven nodded. That had been impressive, the crowd’s gasps and the startled, not-quite-approving murmurs as people realized who the presance’s central figure was meant to represent, and then the spreading laughter, shock giving way to titillated amusement when the absurdity of the presentation struck home. Not everyone would believe it, of course, but for a few minutes, the Most Important Man had been reduced to a bumbling pimp. “He’s going to be furious. Your people had better keep their heads down for a while. Was that Lammasin who was doing Temelathe?”

“Yes.” Folhare gave a rueful smile. “He was supposed to be better masked than that. Oh, well, he’s scheduled to do some work in Irenfot after the holiday, so that ought to keep him out of trouble.”

“I hope so,” Warreven said. They had reached the Embankment then, and he turned right onto the broad walkway. The streetlights were brighter, more closely spaced, and most of the buildings were also lit, lights around a doorway or tracing a stylized, three-armed tree to indicate an open bar. Drumming and voices spilled out into the street as a door opened, were cut off again, and two mems left arm in arm, the same shaal thrown defiantly around their shoulders. Warreven watched them go, idly curious, and was not surprised to see them draw apart before they’d reached the first streetlight, the taller mem wrapping the shaal around his head to pass for male.

“Shall we try Shinbone?” Folhare asked, and Warreven nodded. That was his favorite among the dance houses; they hired decent drummers and kept the peace among the mix of clients.

Its doorway was brighter lit than most, surrounded by a double band of light, gold and green, and there were two trees outlined in lights to either side of the entrance. As usual, a slumped figure, so wrapped in layers of shaals and tunics as to be little more than a dark lump, sat just outside the pool of light, and extended a bowl marked with the Cripple’s crutch as they passed: Aldinogh, who owned Shinbone and three other houses along Harborside, was careful to propitiate the spirits, and anyone living who might be jealous of his prosperity. Warreven reached into his pocket, came up with a handful of small change, and dropped it into the bowl, saying, “From the lady, too.” He jerked his head toward Folhare.

The lurking figure didn’t answer, but Folhare gave him a grateful glance. Warreven hid a twisted smile. She might claim to be fully assimilated, a true Modernist, but she, none of them, could quite free themselves of the teachings of childhood. Oh, it was easy to explain why the customs had developed the way they did—Hara’s population was relatively small, but there were always people who ended up outside the mesnie system, either by choice or accident, and the tradition that said you could not safely refuse anyone who asked help in Caritan the Cripple’s name had obviously grown up to protect that minority—but, even knowing that, it was almost impossible to break those old habits.

The hulking doorkeeper nodded to them as they passed—from him, a major concession—and they went on into the single long room. Like every other dance house in the city, Shinbone had mechanical bars in each of the four corners, and a band platform at the far end of the hall, but at least here the tables surrounding the dance floor weren’t strictly divided between trade and the wry-abed. The groups crowding the tables were fairly well mixed—or at least, Warreven amended, the ones in the light were mixed. There was no way to know if the people groping in the dark at the edges of the room had stuck to the more usual divisions. “Do you want a drink?” he said, to Folhare, but she was looking past him into the shadows by the closest bar.

“I—there’s someone I need to see first, thanks.”

Warreven glanced sideways, to see a group sitting around one of the larger tables. A tiny luciole glowed on the center of the table, between bottles of sweetrum and a smoking pot, but it had been turned low, so that its light barely reached the faces. Even so, he recognized one of them—Lammasin, without the makeup and the padding that had made him look so much like Temelathe—and that meant that the rest of the group would be the other actors from the presance. “Do you think it’s smart?”

“Æ?”

“Do you want to be seen talking to them right now, for your sake or theirs?”

“It’s a wrangwys house,” Folhare said, impatiently. “Who’s going to talk to the mosstaas?”

That was sheer bravado, and they both knew it: the mosstaas had a network of informers that ran throughout the Dockside houses. But there was no arguing with her in her present mood, Warreven thought. He looked back at the table, ignoring the sound of the drums calling the next dance, and saw a stranger, a woman in the full skirt and shaped, peplumed jacket marked with the silver rings of the port administration, leaning over Lammasin’s shoulder. She said something, her face shielded by the fall of her chin-length hair; Lammasin waved her words away, then, changing his mind, beckoned for her to sit beside him.

“If it’ll be a problem for you, of course,” Folhare said, and made the words a dare.

Warreven barely heard her, seeing a second figure emerge from the shadowed corner where the bar stood. Mhyre Tatian, his blond hair and beard unmistakable, handed the off-world woman a bottle of something Warreven didn’t recognize, then stopped behind her chair. He looked almost protective of her, as though he were guarding her, Warreven thought, though she hardly seemed aware of his presence as she leaned toward Lammasin, her bottle already pushed aside. He realized that Folhare was looking curiously at him, and said, “No, not a problem.”

Folhare’s eyebrows rose in patent disbelief, but Warreven ignored her, heading for the table.

“Mir Tatian, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Tatian looked at him over the neck of his bottle, one corner of his mouth curving up into a sardonic half smile. “Mir Warreven. Congratulations on the election.”

He hadn’t spoken loudly, but a couple of the people at Lammasin’s table heard and looked up. Warreven took a step away, deeper into the shadows—no need to be overheard as well as seen—and saw Folhare touch Lammasin’s shoulder, whisper something in his ear. “Thank you. I think we have some unfinished business, you and I.”

“If you mean Shan Reiss’s statement,” Tatian answered, “it’s finished business. Sorry.”

Warreven blinked, startled by the refusal even to discuss it, and said, “Feeling that way about trade, I’m surprised to find you here.” He waved his hand toward the dance floor, and the mix of off-worlders and indigenes watching from the side tables.

Tatian made a face. “I came with Annek.” He looked at the table, where the off-world woman was still talking earnestly. Lammasin hardly seemed to be listening; seemed more intent on the smoke now rising from the pot in front of him. “Is that guy, what’s-his-name, Lammasin, a friend of yours?”

“A friend of a friend,” Warreven answered cautiously.

“We, Annek and I, were at the Stane party at the White Watch House tonight,” Tatian said. “Mir Temelathe was not at all happy with that parody your friends put on. He threatened to keep him from working, and Annek thinks he can do it.”

“Of course he can,” Warreven said. “He recognized Lammasin, then?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” Warreven looked back at the table, at Folhare still hovering, an expression of faint disgust shadowing her face as she watched Annek talking to Lammasin. If Temelathe had recognized the actor, then Lammasin would indeed need to lie low for awhile—it wouldn’t be a bad time to visit his home mesnie, wherever that was, as long as it was out of Bonemarche. Irenfot wouldn’t be far enough away, was too much under the influence of the Stanes, like all the cities on the Westaern, to be truly safe. And besides, he added silently, the job that was supposed to take him to Irenfot would almost certainly vanish, if the Most Important Man was angry.

“Tendlathe was very upset, too,” Tatian said. “You might also tell your friends he wanted to set the mosstaas on them.”

“So what else is new,” Warreven said sourly. He remembered Tendlathe in the library at White Stane House, hand clenched on the arm of his chair. “He doesn’t like off-worlders, he doesn’t like Modernists, he doesn’t like trade, and most of all he doesn’t like being reminded that there really are five sexes. Facts like that confuse him. But I appreciate the warning.”

“It was Annek’s idea. I can’t take credit. But if you can convince him it’s serious—”

“Maybe Folhare can,” Warreven answered, and knew he sounded dubious.

At the table, Annek shook her head, and pushed herself up out of the chair, leaving her drink untouched on the table. “Let’s go, Tatian. I’m not doing any good here.”

Tatian nodded, looking around for a place to leave his own drink, and Warreven said, “Wait.” Tatian set the bottle on an unoccupied table and looked back at him.

“I do have other business with you,” Warreven said, “in my new job. I’d like to discuss the surplus with you.”

Even in the uncertain light, he saw the flicker of interest cross Tatian’s face, quickly muted. “Our office is in the Estrange, Drapdevel Court. You’re welcome to come by.”

“I will,” Warreven answered, and the off-worlder nodded and turned away. Warreven watched them go, Tatian looming over the smaller woman, a protective presence at her side, and wondered if they were lovers. He didn’t think they were, but couldn’t give a real reason—something in Tatian’s voice when he’d said it had been Annek’s idea to come to Shinbone, maybe, or just something in his stance, too casual, almost automatic, to be more than courtesy. And those reasons were nothing more than wishful thinking; they were hardly relevant to the job at hand.

~

Ser, serrem, serray, serram, sera: (Concord) honorifics placed before the surname to indicate the gender of the person (man, mem, herm, fem, woman), considered in Concord usage to be part of the person’s full name; the generic plural is sersi.