Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (10 page)

"I didn't even know
I was on it," Warreven said, but Temelathe was still speaking,
riding over his words.

"I know it's not
strictly speaking my affair, but with Brunwyf away in Luccem for the
holiday, I thought I might be able to clear up the problem before it
officially became one."

"That's kind of
you, my father," Warreven murmured, without the pretense of
conviction.

"I'm not in fact
clear what the problem is." Temelathe's tone sharpened suddenly,
and Warreven imagined the full force of his glare directed at the
monophone. "Your clan has seen fit to nominate you; it's your
obligation to serve."

"I'm not qualified
to be the
seraaliste
,"
Warreven said, with perfect truth. The clan
seraaliste
handled the sale of all harvested and gathered crops to the off-world
brokers, and a man who notoriously couldn't bargain in the markets
was hardly an ideal candidate for the job. "Besides, there's
another nominee."

"Æ, Raven, Daithef
hardly counts as a candidate. Though I admit he'd suit me better
than you in some ways."

That was true enough:
Daithef could be relied on to make a bad bargain, if only out of
spite. "So why, my father, are you trying to talk me into running?"

There was a chuckle at
the other end of the line. "Because what's good for Stane isn't
necessarily good for Hara. And there's money enough in the
off-worlders that we can all share the profits."

"True," Warreven
said dubiously; this was not the usual White Stane attitude. "But
I'm still not qualified to be the
seraaliste
."

"I think you're
underestimating your talents," Temelathe said. "Ah, Raven, this
is no way to talk, not through some machine. Come to the house
tonight--we're having a small dinner, nothing fancy. We can talk
there."

It was not really a
request, and they both knew it. Warreven sighed--there had never
been an easy way to refuse Temelathe Stane; once was more than most
men managed--and said, "I'm honored, my father." His tone was
flat, contradicting the conventional words, and Temelathe chuckled
again.

"It will be worth
your while, Raven, I promise you."

"But will it be worth
yours, my father?" Warreven asked. "As you said, I'm not your
ideal candidate."

"Nor is Daithef,"
Temelathe answered, voice suddenly sharpening. And then the anger was
gone, smothered, and Temelathe was himself again. "I'll expect
you at seven--no, six-thirty. That will give us time to talk a
little."

"I'll be there, my
father," Warreven said, and broke the connection. He looked up to
see the others watching him over the wall of the cubicle and spread
his hands in answer.

"You're going to
dinner," Malemayn said.

"Of course."
Warreven looked at Haliday. "I didn't want or plan this. You do
believe me, Hal?"

There was a little
pause, Haliday's fierce green eyes fixed on him, and then, slowly,
3e nodded. "Even for
you, Raven, this would be--baroque."

Warreven smiled,
reassured, and reached across to light his workstation. "Is there
anything that absolutely has to be done by tomorrow?"

"Only the usual,"
Haliday answered, and turned back to 3er
own cubicle. "I'll flip it to you. What happened with Chattan's
case?"

Malemayn stretched, the
metal bracelets clattering down his arms. "Flip me copies, too,
will you, Hal? We got Chattan his fees back, but the lead-judge
continued the case. Wakelevedy said he'd send the voucher first
thing in the morning."

"And the minute
Chattan gets the money, 3e'll
be off home," Haliday said, bitterly. "I don't suppose there's
any way we could hold onto the money until the next hearing."

"No," Warreven
said, and sighed as a list of files filled his screen.

"This isn't the
case, Hal," Malemayn said, not ungently.

"This is a case we
could've won." Haliday glared at the screen. "Who was the
lead-judge? Archer Stane?"

Malemayn nodded.

"Damn the Stanes,
singly and collectively, to all seven hells in succession," Haliday
said. Ȝe ran a hand
through 3er short hair. "Even Archer would've had to give us this one.
It was perfect,
damn it, poor hard-working, modest-living
halving
from the Equatoriale gets tricked into whoring in Bonemarche, and by
a reputable brokerage, no less--we couldn't lose. And it would
have called the whole structure of the trade into question, let
everybody know that the White Stanes are backing it. So of course
Archer continued it."

"We won't win this
kind of case until we get somebody from Bonemarche to complain,"
Malemayn said.

"And we won't win
this kind of case if it's a Bonemarche whore complaining,"
Haliday retorted.

It was an old argument,
and Warreven looked back to his screen, jabbed halfheartedly at the
list of files to open one at random. Over the last two
calendar-years, the partnership seemed to have been spending more and
more of its time dealing with the fallout of the off-world sex trade,
with the full-time prostitutes and the part-time
marijaks
and
marianjs
who
worked the harborside, and with the off-worlders and wry-abed
indigenes who patronized them. Temelathe preferred to turn a blind
eye to the business--as long as he got his discreet share of the bar
and dance-house profits, he didn't care who went there, or for
what--but at the same time he had to stay on good terms with the
Colonial Committee and the Interstellar Disease Control Agency, who
existed to regulate trade. At the same time, most of the
pharmaceutical companies, from the Big Six down to the smallest
pony-shows, turned a blind eye to their employees' thriving
sideline in the residence and travel permits that were the other side
of trade. And Hara was dependent on the pharmaceuticals for all of
its hard-cash income. It was not, Warreven admitted silently, an easy
situation for Temelathe, but it was a lot harder on the wry-abed.

Malemayn and Haliday
were still arguing, voices low enough to ignore, and Warreven fixed
his attention on the open file on the screen in front of him. It was
an application-to-emigrate for someone named Destany Casnot, herm
passing for male--a Black Casnot rather than a Blue, which made him
distant kin; Casnot, like most of the large clans, was split between
two Watches--and he paged quickly through the file, looking for the
inevitable problems. The partnership didn't get the easy cases; if
this had been a straightforward emigration case, it would have gone
to ColCom without the need for legal backing. Sure enough, the person
sponsoring the application was listed as Sera Timban 'Aukai, who
called herself Destany's common-law wife. He knew 'Aukai, all
right: all of the wry-abed did. She had for years managed an import
service just off the Soushill Road, where indigenes looking for trade
could sell or pawn traditional goods and find safe introductions. And
now she was ready to leave Hara and wanted to take a current lover
with her.

"Who took this
emigration case?" he said, cutting through the others' continuing
argument.

"Æ?" That was
Malemayn.

Haliday leaned over the
cubicle wall. "It's not what you think, Raven."

"Oh?"

"I know you never
liked 'Aukai, but she's all right. Destany hasn't done trade
for ages, they've been living together for the last seven
calendar-years. ColCom's kicking her out--they caught heron a
technicality, selling foodstuffs, for which she isn't licensed.
She's appealing that, too, but she and Destany want to stay
together."

Warreven sighed, some
of the irritation fading. 'Aukai had told him, years ago, when he'd
first come to Bonemarche, that he wasn't suited for trade--which
had turned out to be true, but it hadn't been much help at the
time. Trade was the quickest way for the odd-bodied to earn a decent
living in Bonemarche; the
wrangwys
bars and dance houses where trade was played were also the places
where the wry-abed found each other. He had lived on the fringes of
that world, a
marijak
and occasional
marianj
rather than a proper whore, for almost two years before he'd agreed
to become a clan advocate. And it still pained him to admit that 'Aukai
had been right. "Do we have any other support?"

"Mostly Destany's
kin," Haliday answered. "But your friend Shan Reiss has offered
us an affirmation. He says he'll swear Destany and 'Aukai have
been monogamous for the last five years at least."

"That's something,"
Warreven said, and Malemayn's voice rose from the depths of his
cubicle. "Isn't Reiss some sort of Casnot himself?"

"He's still an
off-worlders," Haliday said. Ȝe
looked at Warreven. "I wanted to ask you to pull the precedents."

Warreven sighed again,
and nodded. He looked down the list of files and saw another familiar
name. "All right. But I want Ironroad then."

"It's all yours,"
Haliday answered. "If I have to see Astrede's smug face again,
I'll rearrange it for him."

Ȝe
turned away, and Warreven looked back at his screen, mousing quickly
through the linked files. Stiller had built the iron road, the
railroad that ran from just south of Luccem town down to Bonemarche,
and then from Ostferry to Irenfot and on up the coast to Gedesrede,
and despite the impossible cost--a price Stiller was still
paying--Harans of every clan remembered it with respect. The
Ironroad Brokerage was a Stiller company, and was evoking a Stiller
triumph, which made this a matter of pride as well as law, if the
complaint was true. And it probably was: Astrede Stiller held the Red
and Green Watch Traditionalists who applied to the brokerage in
genial contempt and tolerated no deviations from his decisions. If he
said they were to go to the plants that processed the harvest for the
off-world pharmaceuticals, to the processing plants they went,
regardless of personal preference or any objections they might raise.
The ones who didn't cooperate found themselves locked out of any
job Astrede controlled. Warreven scowled at the letters on the
screen, caught in a mesh of symbols, and flicked the on-screen toggle
to clear the overlay. Cooperate was hardly the word he would have
chosen; obey seemed closer to the truth. He flipped back to the
previous file, noting the complainants' names: Farenbarne
Trencevent and Catness Ferane, both of the Red Watch, both giving
their occupation as diver. Chauntclere might know the Ferane, he
thought. In any case, it was as good an excuse as any to see him.

He reached for the
monophone again, touched the keys to call the dockyards where
Chauntclere kept a mailbox when he was ashore. As he'd expected,
there was no human response, only the familiar too-sweet mechanical
voice announcing the box number and the box-holder's name, and then
silence for the message.

"Clere, it's
Raven," he said, into the recorder's faint hiss. "I need to
talk to you informally about a case we've got going. Can you give
me some time when you're back?" There was no need to leave codes:
Chauntclere, of all people, knew where to find him. He touched the
break key and heard someone pass the cubicle's doorway. He turned
to see Haliday looking at him again over the wall.

"It's gone five,"
3e said. "I thought you
might like to know."

"Thanks." Warreven
glanced back at the screen, touching keys to begin the shut-down. "Are
you leaving?"

"Yeah. Malemayn's
gone."

"Give me a couple of
minutes, and I'll go with you."

"Lost your keys
again?"

"No, I just--" He
broke off to touch a final set of codes, and the screen went blank.
"They're in my carryall somewhere, and I don't feel like
digging."

Haliday grinned, but
mercifully didn't pursue the matter. "Your dinner's at, what,
seven?"

Warreven reached under
the shelf desk for his bag and straightened up carefully, reaching
across to sweep an untidy handful of disks and papers into the
carryall's main compartment. "Six-thirty. At least, I'm
supposed to be there at six-thirty. Whether I get dinner depends, I
expect, on whether or not I agree to run."

"I wish to hell I
knew what he was up to." Haliday shook 3er
head. "There's no reason in this world for him to make you
seraaliste
--"

"Unless he's
counting on my apparently legendary inability to bargain," Warreven
said, a little too sharply. He stood up, slinging the still-open
carryall over his shoulder. "I don't know what he wants, Hal."

"Sorry." Haliday
stood aside to let him out into the entrance-way, and followed him
out through the reception room into the painted hall. The sun was low
on the eastern horizon, the band of light stretching now almost to
the door, falling heavily on the sandals stacked haphazardly in the
mud tray. Warreven shoved his feet into the nearest pair, the leather
warm under his toes.

Behind him, Haliday
turned the heavy key, then laid 3er
hand flat on the sensor plate to set the security system. "How does
Ironroad look? Any chance of a settlement?"

"Hard to tell,"
Warreven answered. "I'll know better once I've had a chance to
talk to the complainants--what's-it and Farenbarne."

"Catness. He's the
Ferane."

Warreven pushed open
the main door and held it for 3er."Chauntclere
may know him."

Haliday grinned, but
said only, "He might, at that. See you in the morning, Raven."

"In the morning,"
Warreven echoed, and turned down the narrow alley that ran between
their building and the silk-spinny next door. The sun was blinding at
this time of day, the lower limb of the disk almost touching the
horizon; he shaded his eyes and picked his way down the dry side,
wrinkling his nose at the familiar pungent smell of the land-spiders'
pellets and the soft continual purring from their pens. The spinny
door banged as he reached the end of the alley, and the purring
suddenly doubled in volume, nearly drowning out the voice of the
child who came to feed them. Warreven went on up the outside stairs,
kicked off his shoes again on the second-floor porch. The house stood
at the highest part of Blind Point; only the lighthouse stood higher,
marking the entrance to the Sail Harbor. The porch faced just north
of west, looking out over the open water of Lethem's Bay, and he
paused for a moment to scan the harbor, the vivid sails dotting the
metal-bright water. The afternoon's storm was long gone, not even a
shred of cloud to screen the setting sun, and he looked away again,
blinking hard to clear the green streaks from his vision. If he was
made
seraaliste
,
most of those ships, and the dozens of motor barges and lighters and
round-bottomed coasters that ran between Bonemarche and the Stiller
mesnie
s along
the sunset coast, would be his business, the sale of their cargoes
his responsibility. And Temelathe Stane was a hard man to refuse.