Shadow Man

The bad connection in his wrist was getting worse. Tatian tried to ignore it, to concentrate on the desktop display, on the patterns of rough and smooth on the shadowscreen, instead, but the sensation was too irritating. He rubbed his wrist gently, barely touching the protective plate, and winced at the sudden rush of pain. The pressure set off a feedback loop—as he had known it would, as it had done every time he had touched his arm—and the stinging, pins-and-needles sensation shot up his arm and across his chest like the precursor of a heart attack. He swore under his breath and grabbed the edge of the desktop with his good hand, squeezing his fingers into the wood until the pain and tingling had eased again.

He took a careful breath and touched the main control switch, turning off the implanted system. The itching, like the fizz of bubbles under his skin, stopped instantly, and the figures for the newly drafted contract vanished from in front of his eyes. He muttered another curse and worked the shadowscreen, projecting the same numbers onto a secondary screen. It was hard, slow, and clumsy, working without the implants, but the system was getting bad enough that he couldn’t afford to work with them, either. If Am would just hurry up and confirm that she’d bought the box—his eyes strayed to the message screen, obstinately dark despite the golem he’d set to forward him any incoming messages from the port—then he could get the surgery done and get back to normal. If Am was still angry—

He shoved that thought away and touched the shadowscreen to transfer the new numbers from the secondary to the main screen, filling in the blanks in the draft of the new contract with the Liassan mesnie. The numbers looked good, and he’d only had to deviate from NAPD’s preferred standard contract in a couple of places. Even with those changes, and even factoring in the worst possible weather and harvest conditions, the company should show an acceptable profit. And if the weather followed the predicted patterns … He ran his hand over the shadowscreen again, fingers pressing hot and cold spots that changed and shifted under his touch. If the weather stayed within the meteorologists’ predicted limits, NAPD would increase its revenue by a little under seventeen percent. That wasn’t just Liassan, of course, and it didn’t account for fee increases from the various Stane offices—and there would be increases, once Temelathe’s people realized that NAPD’s profits were up—but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Temelathe’s share was like an act of God: one paid and was grateful it was no worse.

It was still hard to be philosophical about it, especially after Wiidfare’s latest attempt to drag NAPD into permit trading, and Tatian found his thoughts drifting away from the contract details, wondered instead if there was any way to avoid Temelathe’s levies. There was plenty of opposition to the Most Important Man, the presance at the Stiller baanket had been ample proof of that; maybe there was a way the pharmaceuticals could use that opposition to force Temelathe to take less. He shook himself then, scowling at the screens. First, the pharmaceuticals wouldn’t cooperate if it affected their profits, and, second, the Modernists made no particular distinction between one company and another. All he would do is get himself kicked off the planet, and NAPD either banned entirely or at best severely restricted. He thumbed the selection menu and called up the file of contracts waiting for renewal. Without the implants, checking them would be a tedious business. Tatian eyed the first screen without eagerness and was grateful when the intercom buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Ser Mhyre.” It was Derebought’s voice and the formal tone and title she used to warn him of something out of the ordinary. “There’s someone to see you, if you’re free. Mir Warreven—the Stiller seraaliste.”

Tatian stared at his desktop without seeing the open screens, mind racing. Warreven had mentioned the Stiller surplus—which rumor said was considerable—at the dance house, Shinbone; unfortunately, any offer was almost certain to come with strings attached, strings that led directly to Shan Reiss and his withdrawn statement. Tatian suppressed the memory of Reiss’s face when he’d heard the ultimatum, the expression of frantic guilt, and touched the intercom. He would be foolish not to listen to what Warreven had to say—and beside, he admitted, silently, I’m curious. “I’m free. Show 3im in, Derry, please.”

“Right away.”

Tatian blanked his screens—though there wasn’t much point; copies of the same documents would be sitting on Warreven’s desk already—and the door opened. Derebought said, “Mir Warreven.”

Warreven nodded 3er thanks and stepped past her into the office, holding out 3er hand in off-world greeting. Tatian leaned across the desk to take it and was aware again of the jewelry, thick hoop earrings, half a dozen metal bracelets, and even the long necklace was more metal than glass. Warreven was, at a conservative guess, wearing half an ordinary indigene’s yearly income: it was a sobering reminder of 3er importance, and Tatian guessed, a deliberate one.

“Shall I make up a tray?” Derebought asked, and Tatian looked past Warreven to see the botanist frowning slightly. Her message was clear: this was an important person and an important meeting; the traditional amenities should be observed.

“Please,” Tatian answered, though he doubted someone as assimilated as Warreven would be unduly impressed by anything NAPD could provide, and gestured for the indigene to take the visitor’s chair.

“Thanks,” Warreven said, with a glance over 3er shoulder that included Derebought, and sat down opposite Tatian.

Tatian reseated himself at the desk, glancing again at Warreven. The seraaliste was dressed much as 3e had been at the dance house, a soft silk tunic over soft trousers, all expensively casual, and 3er thick hair had been pulled back into a single braid. The planes of 3er face looked harder without the mane of hair; Tatian was suddenly aware of the shadows under 3er eyes, and the lines just beginning at the corners of 3er mouth. Ȝe was unexpectedly attractive—handsome rather than beautiful, but still the classic herm looks—not to his usual taste, and Tatian looked down at the empty desktop to break his stare. This had happened before, and not just on Hara, would happen again. Herms and women shared some physical attributes; it was easy to be attracted to the “feminine” aspects of a herm, and ridiculous to think of acting on that attraction. “What can I do for you, Mir Warreven?”

“I hope quite a lot,” Warreven answered, “as I hope I can do something for you. I understand you’ve already been buying from Stiller?”

“Mesnie contracts only.”

“I wonder if you’re still interested—or able—to buy?” Warreven tilted 3er head to one side, wide-set eyes narrowed slightly, as though 3e might smile. The door opened then, and Derebought came in, carrying a tray laden with imported coffee and a triple jug of liquertie. Tatian’s eyes narrowed for an instant, inspecting the offering. Derebought knew the traditional proprieties better than anyone else on NAPD’s staff—that was the reason she was responsible for these social duties, though it always gave Tatian an odd feeling to see the botanist handling protocol—and she was saying, as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, that Warreven was very important indeed.

“Liquertie, mir?” Derebought said, to Warreven. “Or perhaps coffee?”

Tatian let the ritual wash over him, wondering just what Warreven wanted. No, that’s obvious, 3e wants Reiss’s statement; the real question is what 3e’ll offer to get it. Or maybe I’m misreading the whole situation, and 3e’ sjust here for the harvest. Derebought wouldn’t have brought out coffee if she didn’t think a deal was a solid possibility. He accepted a cup of the coffee—the real thing, imported from Atalanta, too expensive to drink more than once a week—and waited until the door had closed again behind Derebought. “NAPD is usually able to acquire worthwhile items, either craft or harvest. Do you—does Stiller, forgive me—have something on offer?”

Warreven smiled. “The harvest has been good this year generally, which you know, and the Westaern sea-harvest particularly so. Which you also know. Stiller has significant surplus, and the mesnies have agreed that it should be placed on offer in a single lot, to be handled by the seraaliste. I wondered if NAPD would be interested.”

Tatian blinked. The sea-harvest had been unusually good; if Stiller was offering the entire surplus as a single block, the harvest was likely to be extraordinary. Reiss’s statement wouldn’t be an unreasonable payment, for such an unheard-of offer. He put that thought aside and said cautiously, “We’re interested, of course. But I understood your contract was with Kerendach.”

“The mesnies have voted me full bargaining rights,” Warreven answered. “In effect, it’s mine to do with as I please, and I’m not fully satisfied with Kerendach right now.”

Plus you want something from me, Tatian thought. He said, “As I said, we’re always interested. I’d like to see some details first, of course. Then I can make a rough offer.”

Warreven set an old-style disk on the desktop and slid it past the tray of liquerties. “I think everything you’ll want is there. I’ll be frank with you, I would go to one of the Big Six, but they tend to stick together. I doubt they’d offer me much more than Kerendach would, and that hasn’t been adequate for less.” Ȝe hesitated, as though 3e would say more, then leaned back in 3er chair.

Tatian took the disk, then ran his hand over the shadowscreen to activate the multiformat reader. He slipped the disk into the cradle, and there was a pause while the system sorted through competing formats. Then the first of the summaries flipped into view. It was enough to make him catch his breath—that block alone would increase NAPD’s potential income by about a tenth of the current total—and he paged quickly through the file, dizzying himself with the possibilities. Warreven was offering broad-leaf kelp, and cutgrass and wideweb, the staples of the Haran sea-harvest, but 3e was also offering crumbling coral, coral fish, and even half a dozen false-kelp holdfasts. Those were worth over a thousand concord dollars apiece, more if they were close to whole: the false-kelp grew too deep for Haran divers easily to reach its base, and in any case, harvesting the holdfast killed the plant. Most of the holdfasts that reached the off-world markets came from storm wrack, and the Big Six bought and sold most of them; for Warreven to be able to offer six as surplus was extraordinary—and a tribute to the negotiating skills of the previous year’s seraaliste, who had set the contract quotas with Kerendach. It also made it easier to contemplate giving Warreven the extras 3e was sure to want. Tatian paged slowly back to the top of the file, imagining the Old Dame’s response to this bounty, and said, “Has Kerendach made an offer, or are we getting first chance?”

“They have a standing offer for surplus,” Warreven said. “It’s in the secondary file.”

Tatian flipped that open, eyebrows rising. “It seems—less than generous,” he said at last. In point of fact, it was ridiculously low for the surplus of an excellent harvest, and he wondered who at Kerendach had made the tactical error. If it had been his business, he would have doubled the standing offer sight unseen—but somebody had been operating on the assumption that Warreven’s inexperience amounted to stupidity. “I think we could—would— better it.”

Warreven smiled again. “There is another matter, of course.”

Tatian matched the smile. “Of course.” And here we go, he thought. Shan Reiss’s statement for the chance to bid on the surplus, which is one of the best block offers I’ve ever seen—except that I’ve been told explicitly, by the Concord agency, that letting Reiss testify can do most to ruin my company, that I cannot not let Reiss get involved in this case. “Reiss?”

“Reiss.” Warreven looked at him, suddenly serious, face gone from exotic beauty to sudden stony gravity in one of the instant changes so typical of a herm. “I owe my partners this one last thing. It seems a fair trade, the statement for your chance at our surplus.”

Tatian didn’t answer for a moment, marshaling his own arguments. “I’m not autonomous, you know. And my ultimate boss has made it very clear that none of us on Hara are to get involved in trade. That includes Reiss.”

“So Reiss said,” Warreven answered. “But this needn’t be a question of trade. Reiss is a Black Casnot by courtesy and custom, and so is Destany—the person in question. It’s Reiss’s obligation to speak for him, since he can give testimony that would be useful, not a matter of trade at all, since Destany hasn’t done trade for seven, eight years—local years, too. I don’t know how many kilohours. I’m sure NAPD is quick enough to make use of Reiss’s kinship when it’s convenient; this is the other side of that obligation.”

That was accurate enough, Tatian admitted, he had made good use of Reiss’s myriad connections, friends and relatives and clan-cousins all up and down the Main Continent, but kept his face without expression. “It’s not just my boss. The IDCA will see this as trade, and they’ve already said they’ll put a stop to it.”

“IDCA profits from trade themselves,” Warreven said, with the hint of an old bitterness. “They’re not going to give that up without a fight.”

“That’s not true,” Tatian said involuntarily, and wanted to take back the words as soon as they were spoken. That was an old charge among the indigenes; nothing any off-worlder said to contradict it seemed to convince them, and there was no point in antagonizing 3im over such an ancient grievance.

Warreven said, “IDCA does profit from trade, or do only direct payments count? It’s trade that makes all the permits so profitable, that lets them keep, what, over two hundred people on planet, on their payroll; if it wasn’t for trade, they’d be the same size as Customs, what’s that, fifty people? And don’t tell me that some of that two hundred don’t take payments to look the other way, pass questionable documents, little things like that. Why shouldn’t they, when their bosses play trade with Temelathe to justify their existence?”

“The IDCA is here to protect all of us, you as well as us,” Tatian said, goaded. “You may not have HIVs now, but let one person in with just the right strain, and your immunity may not last.”

“It hasn’t happened yet,” Warreven answered, but 3er anger was fading as quickly as it had flared. “No, I understand how the mutations work, I understand that whatever it is that’s keeping us safe may not always work, but at the same time, IDCA is using that excuse to keep us trapped here. We can’t win. Anyone who wants to go off-world, unless they’re connected to one of the corporations, they’re assumed to have done trade, and so there’s a forty kilohour waiting period, that’s over three years, before they’ll even consider the application, which they can enforce because we’re not fully of the Concord and the Colonial Committee agrees with IDCA. And all the while, trade goes on. And there still aren’t any HIVs on Hara.”

It was obviously an argument 3e’d made many times before. Tatian stared at 3im, admitting the justice of the argument—though he doubted the IDCA was doing it deliberately. Or not fully so: their mandate was to control the spread of infectious disease between star systems, the HIVs primarily, but all the lesser plagues as well, and their people could be blind to other issues in that all-consuming pursuit. “Which is why the Modernists want Hara to join the Concord,” he said aloud, and Warreven gave a flickering grin.

“Well, it’s why I support the Modernists,” 3e said.

“And why Temelathe opposes them?” Tatian asked.

“Oh, nothing so subtle,” Warreven answered. “No one ever gives up power willingly, not power like his.”

“And Tendlathe?”

Warreven hesitated. “Tendlathe is subtler,” 3e said, after a moment. “Sometimes, in some ways, or maybe he’s just more convoluted. But the main thing is, he doesn’t like change. And this, you must admit, would be a big change.”

“It’s Tendlathe the IDCA are worried about,” Tatian said bluntly. He hadn’t meant to tell the other that, still wasn’t sure it was smart—but he was sure that they would be better off dealing honestly.

Warreven tilted 3er head to one side. “How? I mean, Temelathe is the Speaker, Ten—Tendlathe won’t have real power until he dies.”

“They—the IDCA—think that if you push this case, Tendlathe will be able use it to whip up feeling against us. And, frankly, we don’t need that. I don’t need that.”

Warreven made a soft hissing sound through 3er teeth. “Ten doesn’t have that much support—most people know where the metal comes from, and it’s not from Tendlathe. And besides—” Ȝe broke off, shrugging, looked vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m not fond of ’Aukai, and I don’t know Destany, but it’s not right, what IDCA’s doing to them.”

That last was true enough, Tatian thought, but he wasn’t so sure about the former. He had seen Tendlathe’s face when the dancers had unfurled their banner, seen the tight fury, barely contained. Even without broad-based support, that anger could be dangerous, and he wondered if Warreven wasn’t underestimating the other man’s power, or at least his willingness to use it. Or maybe not: if Jhirad had þis story right, and be usually did, Warreven knew Tendlathe very well indeed. He looked back at the desktop screen, at the open files that showed the list of the Stiller summer surplus. He hadn’t liked the IDCA’s interference, not in pharmaceutical business—not in Reiss’s business, not something that was so blatantly political, the IDCA reaching for more control over the indigenes who played trade—and the numbers and symbols that danced on his screen were more than enough to make it worth pursuing at least a little further. “Given the issues,” he said, “I’ll have to confirm any offer with my boss. I can say that we’re very interested.”

Warreven nodded. “I can accept that, certainly. I’m not—unaware—of the potential awkwardness of your position. But I’ll need to know something soon.”

“How soon?”

“Within the week,” Warreven answered. “Or I will need to explain why I’m not taking the block elsewhere.”

“That’s acceptable.”

“Good.” Warreven pushed 3imself up out of the chair. Tatian copied him and leaned across the desk to offer his hand. Warreven’s fingers were almost cold, startling in the Haran warmth. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Tatian remained standing as the door closed behind 3im, still unable quite to believe in what he’d been offered. The best of the end-of-season, more and better than anything NAPD had been able to find on its own, more than they’d ever been offered by anyone—but at a price that might well prove impossible. He heard the outer door close and saw, through the half-closed sun shutters, Warreven walking away across the courtyard, the thick braid of 3er hair swaying against the rich green silk like the tail of a stalking cat. And I wish I knew for certain, Tatian thought, that what 3e was hunting wasn’t us.

He looked back at the files on the desktop and reached for the intercom button. “Derry? Mats? Come in here a minute, please.”

The door slid open almost at once, as though they had been waiting for the summons—which, Tatian added silently, they probably had.

“Do we have an offer, then?” Derebought asked, and at Tatian’s gestured invitation, seated herself in the client’s chair. Lanhoss Mats leaned over her shoulder, long boned and loose jointed, the skin of his hands and face marked with faint scars where incipient sun-tumors had been cut away.

“We have an offer,” Tatian said, and knew he sounded less than enthusiastic. He touched the shadowscreen, created a copy of Warreven’s file, and dumped it to the free drive. “It’s a very good offer, in fact. Stiller’s selling the end-of-season surplus as a single block.” He pulled the button with its embedded copy out of the drive and tossed it to Derebought, who caught it by reflex. “Take a look at this, see what you think. Give everything a tentative grade and a going price, and get back to me. As soon as you can, please.”

Derebought nodded. “I didn’t think they could make bulk offers, I thought the Big Six wrote their contracts to prevent it.”

“That’s not our problem,” Tatian answered. “If Warreven says 3e can sell, we can buy.”

“Kerendach won’t like it,” Mats said.

“If this flies,” Tatian said, “we won’t have to worry about Kerendach.” Kerendach is the least of our worries, he added silently. Just the IDC A and Tendlathe—which ought to be enough for anyone.

“I’m going to want a direct line to the home office, and an appointment with Masani %erself,” he went on. “As soon as we’re in alignment.”

Mats glanced at the floor, and then at the wall, calling up internal systems. “Depends on the port queue, of course. But there’s a forty-hour window opening at midnight.”

“Better than I expected,” Tatian said.

“So what’s the catch?” Derebought said.

“Derry,” Mats said, protesting.

Tatian smiled. “Politics, what else?”

“Reiss’s—” Derebought began, and Tatian shook his head.

“I don’t want to go into details, not yet, maybe not ever. This could be very sticky, people. For now, I’m

taking full responsibility.”

That was enough to make even Mats raise his eyebrows. Derebought said slowly, “If you’re sure….”

Tatian nodded. “I’m sure. Mats, we’ll need to talk to shipping.”

“I’ll get started on the analysis right away,” Derebought said, and went out, closing the door again behind her.

Mats lowered himself into the chair she had just left. “If you want estimates, Tatian, you’ll have to tell me how much stuff we’re talking about.”

Tatian reseated himself, and fingered the shadowscreen until he found the conversion program. “Very roughly, one hundred twenty-five to one hundred fifty mass units. Not all of that will need starcrates, of course.”

Mats sighed noisily. “You don’t ask for much, do you? Okay.” He looked sideways again, fingers curling around his left wrist to work the input pad buried beneath the skin. “Okay. I’ve got enough crates to handle about eighty, maybe ninety-five mu. Maybe as much as a hundred if I can get some of the bad ones back in service. Normally, I’d borrow, but…” He let his voice trail off, and Tatian nodded, not needing to have the sentence finished for him. Under most circumstances, the other pharmaceuticals would be willing to lend spare equipment, but not when so much money was at stake.

“What can we ship bare?”

“I’d rather not ship any,” Mats said. “It depends on what we’re getting, of course.”

“Generally speaking.”

Mats shrugged. “Cutgrass usually travels well, and wideweb if it’s been rough-processed. Buyers tend to assume damage, though.”

“I’ll make you a copy of the list,” Tatian said, hand busy on the shadowscreen. “See what we can do if we get everything.”

“You’re optimistic,” Mats said.

“We might as well look at the best case,” Tatian answered, and flipped the data button across the desk to the other man.

Mats nodded, stuffing it into his pocket. “I’ll ask around, too, see if I can line up a few more crates before anyone hears about the deal. I can probably arrange to get another two or three.”

“That sounds good,” Tatian said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Mats answered, and levered himself up out of the chair.

~

Mem: (Concord) human being possessing ovaries, XX chromosomes, some aspects of male genitalia but not possessing testes; ρe, ρis, ρim, ρimself.

Warreven

Warreven took the long way back to the Black Watch House and the seraaliste’s office, over the hills of the mixed neighborhoods between the Estrange and the Glassmarket rather than along the Embankment and Harborside, not wanting to run the risk of meeting either Destany or ’Aukai. The discussion with Tatian had gone well, he thought—the off-worlder had seemed willing at least to consult with his superiors, and he’d certainly been interested in the surplus—but he knew ’Aukai would expect instant results, and he didn’t look forward to explaining that she’d have to wait a little longer. With any luck, he could avoid her completely, leave explanations to Haliday or Malemayn…. He sighed then. It didn’t feel right, supporting them in what was nothing more than long term trade—but then, it was their business, their choice, and they had a right to it. IDCA was treating them badly: that was the truth, not just a convenient way to get Tatian’s sympathy. It didn’t matter that he didn’t like or trust ’Aukai; she was in the right, this time, and he—or Haliday and Malemayn, since he’d been forced to resign the partnership—had an obligation to her.

It was a longish walk, through streets that were alternately prosperous and poor, shops and houses mixed with manufactories. Heat radiated from the open doors of the glassmaker’s sheds, and he could hear the dull rush of the fires inside. Most of them were using imported fuel now, and the emptied plastic cylinders clogged the alleys, waiting for the salvagers’ trucks. The air smelled of glass and spilled oil, and he had to step carefully around puddles where the chemicals that colored the glass had run into the street. On Grantpas Street, half a dozen women—no, he realized, with a sudden shock, at least three of them were herms, and the rest looked more like fems, long-legged and narrow-hipped, all in a mix of traditional or off-world clothes that made no pretense of concealing their anomalous bodies—sat or stood along the back wall of the Blue Watch House. Their goods, quilts and clothes and bright coarsely knotted caps, spread out on the paving in front of them. There were no children in sight—unusually; the vendee generally brought their offspring with them and let them earn their keep—but then he saw a single light-haired toddler clinging to the leg of one of the herms. The sunlight shone on the piled silks, tunics and trousers, and vests in all the colors of the rainbow, and from the bed quilts hung against the blond brick wall behind them, but no one stopped to buy. On the wall above their heads, a painted Madansa spread her hands, displaying painted bounty: this was a recognized market, then, but one with- out customers.

That was almost unprecedented, and he looked around, curious and wary. The short street that led into Swetewater Square where the Blue Watch’s main market was held was clear; nothing blocked passage between the two areas, but there were mosstaas by the barred side door of a spicery. One of the pair held a camera conspicuously in his hands, trained on the market women. Warreven slowed his pace, pretending to examine the nearest quilt—blue and gray and gold, the sort of colors that Folhare loved to play with—and saw the cameraman work his controls, recording him. He looked back at the quilt and saw the nearest woman looking at him, a sour expression on her face.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked, and tilted his head toward the cameraman.

The woman—herm, really, the shape confirmed by the off-world clothes—stared back at him, her expression unchanging. “Mosstaas, serray. Do you want to buy?”

The off-world term was a small shock. Warreven blinked, and a second woman—a fem, this time, traditional skirts falling lank from her waist—stepped hastily forward.

“Mir Warreven, isn’t it? You spoke for me in small-court last year. Secontane—Casnot, of the Barres mesnie. Black Casnot.”

Warreven nodded. He remembered the case, though he wouldn’t have recognized her out of the off-world clothes she had been affecting then. “What’s going on?”

“We—we’re all part of the Newfolk Cooperative—we got kicked out of the Swetewater market because we wouldn’t dress appropriately—”

“Wear traditional clothes,” the first woman interjected. Face and voice were bitter.

“—and then the mosstaas showed up,” Secontane continued, with a minatory look at her friend. “They started taking pictures, and of course no one wants to buy under those circumstances. Not even the off-worlders are interested now.”

“Who sent them?” Warreven asked. “The market keeper?”

“Probably,” the first woman muttered.

Secontane shook her head. “I don’t think so. We worked hard to get this space—I thought, we all thought, it was a good compromise. The Watch gets a traditional market, and we still get a space. They just showed up.”

Warreven sighed, squinted at the pair still lurking in the shadows of the doorway. It was not, strictly speaking, his business—but she’s of my Watch, and I will be damned before I let them get away with this. “Let me see what I can do,” he said, and started toward the mosstaas without waiting for an answer.

“Spirits go with you,” someone—not Secontane, and not her friend—murmured after him.

The mosstaas with the camera lifted it even higher as he approached, training the round dark eye of the lens on him. A targeting light glowed red in its depths, signaling that the machine was on and recording. Warreven smiled cheerfully into it. “Who’s in charge here?”

“I am.” That was the man without the camera.

At his words, the cameraman lowered his machine, and the light flicked off behind the lens. Warreven looked at them—backcountry boys from the Peninsular mesnies, by the look of them, unhappy and out of place in the big city—and said, “What’s your authority for this?” He pointed to the camera.

The cameraman glanced warily at his senior, a single betraying glance, and the other man cleared his throat. Warreven could see his eyes move, flicking across the metal bracelets and necklaces as well as the body beneath the loose clothes, and was glad he had worn his full regalia. “My own authority, mir.” The honorific came reluctantly, but it was there. “We’re encouraged to use our initiative.”

“The marketkeepers have agreed these women can use this space,” Warreven said. “By law and custom, you have no right to interfere.”

“These—people—are potentially troublemakers,” the mosstaas answered. “It’s my responsibility to keep the peace.”

“No one’s causing any trouble here,” Warreven said. “Except you for them.”

“We’re protecting the market,” the cameraman said. “Keeping a record. If people are ashamed to be seen—”

“It’s our responsibility to keep the peace,” the other mosstaas said again.

Warreven looked at them, seeing for the first time the badge, the Captain’s anchor awash in a sea of red and white flames: Tendlathe’s followers, ultra-Traditionalists. “The marketkeepers authorized this,” he said again, and reached out to touch the carved and painted circle with one fingertip. The mosstaas didn’t flinch, but his eyes were wary. “Their right supersedes yours—the Captain has no rights in the marketplace, that’s Madansa’s domain.” Warreven tilted his head toward the painted figure, her broad face impassive, hands outstretched over a frieze of food and cloth and glass. “I’m prepared to take this to the marketkeepers, and your superiors.”

“They’ll approve it,” the cameraman muttered.

The other mosstaas nodded. “Our superiors will back us in this, mir.”

“But they haven’t yet,” Warreven said. “Until then—and only if they agree—you have no right to be here.”

The cameraman glanced again at his superior, who hesitated, then nodded once, jerkily. “All right. But we’ll be back, and with all the authority you, mir, could want. We have friends higher than you.”

Warreven nodded back. “Tell Tendlathe that I—that Warreven—wants to talk to him.”

“I’ll tell him that,” the senior mosstaas said, and managed to sound menacing. At his gesture, the cameraman tucked his machine under his arm, and the two walked away across the market, disappeared down a side street toward the local headquarters. Warreven watched them go, wondering if he’d done the right thing when he reassured Tatian that Tendlathe’s power was limited. For the mosstaas to act like this—interfering in trade had always been Temelathe’s one great taboo—they had to be very sure, both of Tendlathe’s approval and his ability to protect them. He walked back toward the line of marketwomen, who offered scattered applause, softly, to keep it from carrying beyond the confines of the market.

“Thanks, mir,” Secontane said, and Warreven shrugged.

“Thank me if it works. They say they’ve gone to get written authority.”

“The marketkeepers will support us,” Secontane said, and beckoned to another fem. “Bet, go tell Farelok what’s happened, and tell him a marketmaster would help us a lot.”

“Right, baas,” the woman—she was the most traditionally dressed of the group—answered, and started away, hoisting her skirts to her knees to move more quickly.

Warreven nodded, hoping she knew what she was talking about. “Good luck,” he said, and started back toward his own Watch House.

~

Important Man, Important Woman: a man or woman who has, by virtue either of a job or by election, been accepted as someone who can represent or speak for the clan.

Mhyre Tatian

Voska’s was crowded, as usual. Tatian paused just inside the door, grateful for the cool air that washed over him, let his eyes roam across the crowd. He recognized most of the people—fellow pharmaceuticals, staffers from ColCom and the IDCA and Customs, neighbors from EHB Three, a couple of port techs he’d played racquets with—and it took him only a few seconds to spot Arsidy Shraga and Eshe Isabon. They were sitting at their usual table, about equidistant between the live bar and the kitchen hatch, an empty platter between them. Isabon looked up then and lifted a hand to wave him over. Tatian waved back, but pointed to the bar. %e nodded, but Shraga lifted his empty bottle and mimed pouring another drink. Tatian sighed, and nodded: he would buy this round.

He crossed to the stationary bar and fed assignats into the automat, waiting for the locks to release. When the off-world section came around, he collected three double-serving bottles of wine, and then threaded his way through the tables to join his friends.

“Very generous,” Shraga said, and reached up to snare a bottle.

Tatian set the remaining bottles on the table and seated himself between them. Isabon tilted a bottle to the light to read the label and lifted an eyebrow.

“Very generous indeed.”

Tatian ignored the implied question, busied himself opening his own bottle.

“It’s good to see you again, Tatya,” Shraga said. From the sound of his voice, he’d been drinking for some time already. “I propose a toast. To home. Where they have five sexes, one calendar—”

“And everything isn’t spiked with a restricted substance,” Tatian said, and lifted his own glass in answer.

Isabon grinned. “And the only thing that jumps into your lap and purrs has four legs, not six, right, Shraga?”

Shraga shuddered ostentatiously, and Isabon went on, “Shraga just spent a week in the Estaern, and his hosts at the last mesnie raised land-spiders.”

“And gave them the run of the compound,” Shraga said.

Tatian gave the other man a sympathetic look. Haran land-spiders weren’t really spiders, of course; they were a species of crustacean, averaging thirty centimeters across the body, not counting the extravagant legs. They were friendly, docile, and spun the silk that clothed the wealthier half of Hara’s population, as well as provided a tidy export income for the Stillers, Feranes, and Delacostes—and they undeniably did purr—but he had never quite felt comfortable with the creatures. Of course, NAPD dealt in flora, not silk, so he’d never had to learn to like them.

“It did something interesting to the silk, letting them run loose like that,” Shraga went on. “You might want to check it out, Isa.”

Isabon nodded, looked at Tatian. “So what did you want, buying a nice drink like this?”

“To talk,” Tatian answered, and took a sip of the wine. It was good, chilled and not too sweet, and free of the underlying clove-tingle of Haran drugs. The music had started, off-world music with the bass tuned unnaturally loud, and he was grateful for the cover it provided. Isabon waited, a smile just touching %er thin lips, and Shraga made a face.

“Oh, my god, politics.”

“What else?” Tatian said. “The IDCA. And maybe Tendlathe Stane.”

“That’s a match made in hell,” Isabon said. “But hardly likely.”

Tatian said, “The IDCA have asked me—unofficially but firmly—not to do something, because it would give Tendlathe an excuse to act against trade and against them.”

“All at the same time?” Shraga asked, and Isabon hushed him.

“At the same time,” Tatian agreed. “And I’m under—shall we say considerable economic pressure?—to do exactly that. I’m wondering what you two know about Tendlathe’s status.”

“He has a lot of power,” Isabon said, %er voice without noticeable inflection. “So do the IDCA.”

Tatian waited.

“I heard,” %e went on, “that they’re being asked to step in on an emigration case. Trade matters.”

Shraga waved that away. “It’ll never happen. Not in Temelathe’s lifetime—and not in Tendlathe’s, he hates all of us. He’d like nothing better than for us all to pack up and go home.”

Isabon’s eyes flicked sideways. “Well, Shraga’s right there. Tendlathe really wants the Concord to go away.”

“How the hell would they manage without us?” Shraga demanded. “No metal, no tech of their own—”

“They did all right after the First Wave ended,” Isabon said impatiently. “He figures they can do it again.” %e fixed %er eyes on Tatian. “He’s very sensitive to issues of gender, it seems. And to trade. He seems to think that if they could just get rid of trade, all the herms, mems, and fems would just—disappear.”

“That’s crazy,” Tatian said.

“No crazier than anything else on this planet,” Isabon answered. “And he’s got support, Tatian. I had to send one of my assistants to Redlands last month because they were so uncomfortable dealing with me. I hate to say it, but the IDCA might be right. This is not the time to give him any excuses.”

Tatian sat silent for a moment. He still had trouble understanding how Harans could deny the existence of three of the sexes, when mems, fems, and herms walked past them every day, a full quarter of the population. But then, he’d once had a polite, slightly mad conversation with an old vieuvant, who had told him quite sincerely that the story about the five sexes being the result of hyperlumin-induced mutation was a lie, or at best a misperception, and that all that was really required to bring humanity back to its proper two-gendered state was to stop coddling these people and force them to make up their minds what they really were.

“Redlands must’ve loved dealing with an assistant,” he said aloud.

Isabon smiled, showing teeth. “I told them, they could deal with me directly, or with my assistant, who would not have the authority to offer more than the pre-set contract. They took the assistant and the contract. I can live with the insult when it saves me that much money.”

“Idiots,” Shraga said. He would have said more, but Isabon leaned forward.

“So, Tatya, what do you hear about labor trouble in Pensemare?”

“We don’t do business on the Westland,” Tatian answered, with perfect truth. “All I’ve heard is that the Donavie are going to file a protest.”

“Like it would do them any good,” Shraga said.

Tatian poured himself a second cup of wine, letting the gossip wash over him. He had gotten what he had come for—was willing to pay for the information with whatever he could contribute to the conversation. His heart wasn’t really in it, however, his mind occupied with the upcoming conversation with the Old Dame. If Isabon said he should do what the IDCA wanted, he should probably listen to %er—but Warreven’s opinion had to carry some weight, too, maybe more weight than oers. He would put both opinions to the Old Dame, he thought, let %er make the final decision, but he wanted this contract.

By the time he left Voska’s, it was late enough that he called a rover to drive him back to the office in the Estrange. He paid the driver, a skinny man in cheap flaxen gauze, fifteen grams in metal to wait in the parking alley behind NAPD’s section of the building, and went inside, feeling slightly guilty. It was uncomfortable being this much richer than the general population; even on Antigone, his last station before Hara, he hadn’t felt so out of sync with the rest of the world.

Derebought had left the databutton on his desk, along with a print of her first-run results. Even allowing for error and misunderstanding, and the inevitable shifts in demand and price, the total was enormous. Tatian refolded the papers and set them aside as carefully as if they held the harvest itself. He had underestimated by almost two million. If they took the contract, NAPD would nearly double its profits. Or more.

He flicked the external switch to restart his system, waiting in the silence of the empty building while the machines whirred to life. When the desktop screen lit, a bright orange message reminded him that it was less than an hour to his scheduled conference with Masani, and he fiddled with the shadowscreen to invoke the comm management program. He checked the parameters—all as they should be, just the same as they had been the last time—and flipped the program to standby while he went over Derebought’s figures a final time. Even at their most conservative—improbably, impossibly conservative, he thought, though superstitiously he would never have said that aloud—the profits remained worth the risk. He would warn Masani of Valmy’s and Jhirad’s visit, of course, and their threat—and Isabon’s warning, δer suspicion that they might be right—but he couldn’t imagine turning down this chance. And the Old Dame had never refused a challenge in δer life.

The system chimed then, signaling the preliminary signals from the port. Tatian recalled the communications program and waited while it matched channels and input/output checks. Finally, the screen cleared, displaying the familiar codes of a transsystem link, and the wallscreen opened. Masani looked out at him, expressionless, a tall fem, raw-boned, with harsh lines from the hard weather on a dozen different planets and dark, farsighted eyes. The visuals were only fair, static hazing the edges of the screen, haloing the central images with little rainbows, but the audio was much better, Masani’s voice nearly as clear as on a transcontinental linkup. δe listened to his summary, demanded a copy of the preliminary assessment and whatever else Derebought came up with on later runs, and then fixed him with δer fierce stare.

“So everything’s wonderful, except that the new seraaliste wants Reiss to make a report, sorry, a court statement, that the IDCA has explicitly told you to kill.”

“Yes.” Tatian watched the image warily, δer face and moving hands haloed by rainbow static. He wanted this contract, he realized suddenly, wanted it more than was entirely reasonable—but enthusiasm was appropriate, he told himself, when there was this much money involved.

“And the IDCA wants to kill Reiss’s statement because Temelathe asked them to get involved, and Temelathe wants it killed— why?”

“I don’t know for certain. My best guess—” Tatian spread his own hands, deliberately scaling the gesture to the limits of the comm package, repeated what he’d said before. “From what Valmy and Jhirad said, I think Warreven’s partners want to use this case to force a general discussion of trade. And that means gender law as well, how many sexes there actually are. None of the mesnies are real comfortable with that, and Tendlathe, who’s a bit of a nut case, as far as I can tell, is working on them to keep things just the way they are.”

Masani’s mouth twisted. “And Tendlathe is confirmed as Temelathe’s heir?”

“Yes,” Tatian said again.

δe snorted. “But Warreven thinks he doesn’t really have the support.” δe looked away then, expression suddenly sad. “I remember when I first came to Hara, everyone assumed I’d do trade, because I’m a fem and I had my own company. Then the indigenes decided I was a woman, so I spent about ninety-seven kilohours, eight local years, having to explain myself to everyone.” δe shook δer head, shook δerself back to the matter at hand. “All right, I don’t like trade, and I don’t have a problem with NAPD being known to be involved in this case if it’s meant to break trade. Temelathe knows where I stand on that. But I especially don’t like the IDCA telling me what I can and can’t do when I’m not breaking any laws. So. Does this Warreven really have this much to offer?”

“The sea-harvest has been very, very good this year,” Tatian answered. “There may be—hell, there will be some exaggeration, either in the grade or in the total quantity available, but we’ve already factored that into the estimates. The seraalistes don’t dare play too fast and loose with the numbers, not if they expect to keep doing business with us.”

“Certainly,” Masani agreed, with a slight, unpleasant smile, and Tatian remembered too late that δe had traded on Hara for ten years. “But does your Warreven know this?”

That could give me nightmares if I let it, Tatian thought. He said, “Yes. I think 3e’s more knowledgeable than 3e lets on.”

“Not too much more, I hope,” the Old Dame said, and Tatian smiled dutifully. δe sighed, looked down at δer own screen, δer blunt-fingered hands sprawling across δer desktop. Every movement sparked a rainbow, so that δe moved in a cloud of refracted light. “So you think it’s worth fighting the IDCA on this one.”

“I do,” Tatian answered. “We’re well within the law—hell, what they’re asking is illegal, not anything we’re doing. And I don’t think we’re going to see another surplus like this for another forty-three, forty-four kilohours.”

“All right,” Masani said. “We’ll do it. I’ll warn the accountants to expect the buy. Get me the final figures as soon as you have them, and I’ll sign the drafts. I assume 3e’ll want a metal payment?”

“Not decided yet,” Tatian said, and δe grunted.

“There usually is. Remember, we need at least five hundred hours lead time for that, and seven fifty would be better.”

“I will.”

“Good. And, Tatian. Nice work.”

δe cut the transmission, leaving the screen streaming with multicolored static, before he could respond to the unexpected praise. He touched the shadowscreen and watched the shutdown procedures flicker across his desktop, wincing at the charges that appeared in the accounting screen. Interplanetary communication was painfully expensive; at this rate, he thought, he had maybe three calls left for this budget year. He entered the codes that accepted the charges and authorized payment, then made a note in his private file to recheck the communications budget, just to see where the money had gone. There had been two calls when Derebought isolated the guafesi, and— He deliberately shut off those thoughts. It was late, and he was tired; better to deal with that in the morning, he thought, and flattened his hand against the shadowscreen. The machine flashed a last quick series of queries, but he kept his hand flat until the last light had winked out. He flipped on the main security systems, with their seventy-second delay, and walked out the back door to the parking alley.

The rover was still there, the driver curled in his compartment like a mouse in its nest. Tatian tapped gently on the window, and the thin man woke instantly. He came upright in the same moment, eyes focusing first on his board, and then on Tatian himself. Seeing him, the driver relaxed, and reached across to open the passenger door.

“All done, mir?”

“All done,” Tatian answered, and climbed into the passenger compartment.

“Where to, then? Going dancing? I know some good places, even for an off-worlder.” The driver looked at him in his mirror, his grin showing badly patched teeth.

Tatian shook his head. “Not tonight. Just home—EHB Three.”

Everyone knew the compounds where the majority of the off-worlders lived. The driver nodded, and slipped the rover into gear. Tatian leaned back in his seat, aware for the first time of just how tired he was. Not that it was that late, really—barely past two—but it had been an active day. And, he admitted, with a quiet smile, an exhilarating one. If everything worked out, if he could keep the IDCA at arm’s length and trade Reiss’s statement for the surplus contract—well, at the least, he would certainly earn one of the Old Dame’s generous bonuses, not to mention put himself well ahead in the promotions stakes.

The rover slid out of the alley, turned onto the ring-road that carried traffic around the maze of linked courtyards that made up the Estrange. From the top of the slight hill, he could see between the buildings to the harbor; the lights seemed brighter than usual there, and he wondered if some of the harvest was in. Then he realized that the light wasn’t steady and was much too orange for the usual working lights.

“Fire?” he said, and the driver slowed.

“I heard sirens earlier, mir,” he volunteered. “They were heading toward the docks—toward Dock Row, the north end. Do you want to take a look?”

Tatian shook his head, though he was tempted. “Just home,” he said again, and thought the driver looked disappointed.

“Right, mir, EHB Three it is.”

“Thanks.”

There was more traffic on Tredhard Street, most of it going away from the harbor. Tatian squinted through the doubled glass of passenger compartment and driver’s screen and thought he saw barriers pulled across the road at the base of the hill, barring traffic from the Harbor Market. People in uniform were standing there, not firefighters in their silver, but the dull black of the mosstaas; he imagined he could smell smoke in spite of the rover’s filter, but couldn’t see the flames.

“Something’s burning for sure,” the driver said. “In Dock Row, it looks like.”

Tatian nodded, still staring down the badly lit street. If it was in Dock Row proper, the off-world warehouses should be safe enough, since they stood at the north end of the street, clear of the Market. Dock Row itself was mostly bars and dance houses—the center of trade, he realized suddenly, and shivered in spite of the warm evening. If someone was striking back at trade, Dock Row and its bars were a good place to begin. He shoved the thought away. There was no point in speculating until he knew what had actually happened—for all he knew, someone had been careless with a stove, or lightning had struck, some natural disaster. In the mirror, he saw the driver shake his head.

“I’m going to have to go the narrow way, mir, by the Soushill Road.”

“Fine,” Tatian answered, and a moment later they were in shadow again as the rover turned onto the smaller street. Soushill Road was mostly small shops, chandlerys and hardware, and the occasional software broker or satellite tracker, all closed down against the night. Even the streetlights were out; only the occasional dot of an alarm system glowed in the corner of a doorway. The driver muttered something and switched his lights to high.

Then, from nowhere, came the snarl of an engine. A massive shay shot from an alley and swung skidding into Soushill Road. The driver swore, jamming on his brakes, and Tatian caught himself stiff-armed against the partition separating him from the driver’s compartment. Pain flared in his arm, along the lines of the faulty implant. He caught a glimpse of the shay’s open body, of the dozen figures in it, black-robed, black-hooded, faces hidden by blank white masks like the faces of unfinished dolls. One of them lifted an empty ring, also white, white as bone, lifted a white feather-tipped stick and mimed striking the empty air, as though he—she? ρe? δe? 3e?—beat an invisible drum. He was still drumming, white-gloved hands holding the empty drum frame overhead, as the shay skidded around another corner and vanished completely.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, and cradled his arm against his chest, trying not to jar the implant box.

“I—don’t know, mir. Never seen anything like it.” The driver’s voice was frightened, and the eyes that met his in the mirror were wide and staring. “Never at all.”

You’re lying, Tatian thought, and could not have said what made him so sure of it. But whatever they were—he conjured the black-robed shapes again, the white masks and gloves and the invisible, frantic drum—whatever they were, whoever they were, you knew them. You knew what they meant. “Take me home,” he said aloud, knowing better than to press the issue, and leaned back against the padding. Reiss would know, or Warreven; he would ask one of them in the morning.

~

Odd-bodied: (Hara) colloquial generic term for herms, mems, and fems.