Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (12 page)

And
standing on his dignity, too
, Warreven thought. Or maybe
it was just her habit to refer to Temelathe by the most exalted form
of his name. He nodded, and gestured for her to precede him into the
house.

The party hadn't
started yet, but a few of the guests were already present, gathered
in one of the anterooms outside the main hall. The housekeeper swept
him quickly past the doorway, but Warreven saw Aldess Donavie
standing in the center of a circle of admirers. She saw him, too, and
smiled graciously, showing perfect teeth, but did not beckon him in.
There was no sign of Tendlathe--which was probably just as well,
Warreven admitted. After their last argument, he'd rather keep out
of Tendlathe's way for a while.

The housekeeper stopped
outside a familiar door and tapped lightly on the frame. "Enter,"
a voice said, only slightly deadened by the dense wood, and the
housekeeper pushed open the door.

"Mir Warreven, Mir
Stane."

Temelathe was sitting
in his favorite chair, beside the massive cast-ceramic stove. It was
unlit, of course, wouldn't be lit until the coldest nights of the
winter, but it was more expensive evidence of the clan's power. "I'm so
glad you could come," he said, and Warreven heard the
housekeeper shut the door behind him. "Sit down, make yourself
comfortable.
Liquertie
?"

Warreven glanced at the
tray that rested on the cold stovetop. The flask was filled with
indigo liquid, and a dark, twisted shape floated in its depths: not
just ordinary
liquertie
,
then, but black nectar,
liquertie
infused with the root pod from a vinegar tree. "Thank you. May I
pour you a glass, my father?"

Temelathe nodded, a
slight, slightly indulgent smile on his weathered face. He had never
been handsome, had broadened with age until he looked like one of the
aged wood carvings of the Captain. He cultivated that resemblance, of
course, but it was still compelling, the fierce brown eyes enmeshed
in the web of fine lines that covered his face. Warreven filled the
delicate glasses with liquor that flowed like thick ink and handed
one across with a slight, polite bow, falling into a familiar role.
The dutiful son was useful, and generally safe: it gave no
opportunity for criticism and rarely required one to commit oneself
to anything.

"Sit," Temelathe
said again impatiently, and Warreven lowered himself into the second
chair.

"Now, what's all
this about not wanting to be
seraaliste
?
Strictly speaking, it's not an honor you can refuse."

Warreven sipped the
nectar, enjoying the thick, cinnamon-lemon taste. "I didn't ask
to be on the list. I didn't even know my name was on it until
today--and that, my father, is hardly appropriate procedure."

"You couldn't have
been nominated without some sort of permission, at least by proxy,"
Temelathe said.

"Nevertheless--"

"A recording error,"
Temelathe said, and waved the idea away with his free hand. "Something
didn't reach you--the mails can be unreliable,
especially this new net you like so well. That's why I wanted to
keep the old systems in place."

"It's a good reason
to question my candidacy," Warreven answered. "That sort
of--error--could be held to contaminate the whole slate."

Temelathe frowned. "The
Modernists would love to hear you say that."

"Yes. And I agree
with their positions." Warreven took another sip of the nectar, and
a fragment of root-pod landed, bitter and stinging, on his tongue.
"Which is why, my father, I don't understand your attitude. Let's
be frank, I won't do you any good as
seraaliste
."

Temelathe regarded him
over the rim of the
liquertie
glass. "Let's be frank, then, my son. You don't do me any good
as an advocate, but not opposing your name for
seraaliste
does me good with your less-radical kin. So, my son, I want you to
run. I don't really care whether or not you're elected--though I
think you'll care, given your opponent--but I will not have you
challenge the slate." He paused, and continued with a smile, "I'm
sure you'll find, if you check your records, that you received word
that your name would be put in nomination months ago."

Warreven allowed
himself a rather bitter smile in answer. "I'm sure."
And
someone will find himself a little richer at the network offices,
too, for adding a backdated note to my file
. "I won't
campaign," he said, and knew he sounded merely petulant.

"I wouldn't worry
about it," Temelathe said.

Warreven sighed,
admitting his defeat. He wouldn't need to campaign, not if
Temelathe was backing him, and the threat of challenging the slate
was just that, an empty threat. The Stillers would never agree to
that if he invoked Modernist politics--the Modernists were too
radical even for a clan known to be progressive--and without the
backing of the full clan, he could never hope to overthrow the
candidacy. "I hope you don't regret this, my father," he said,
and Temelathe's smile widened.

"I doubt I will."
He paused. "I'd like to see you and Tendlathe friends again."

Several answers rose to
Warreven's lips, but he controlled himself. He said, "First,
that's his problem more than mine. Second, you don't help things
by reminding him of a marriage neither one of us really wanted."

"You'd've been a
better wife than Aldess."

"No, I wouldn't."
Warreven stood. "Good night, my father."

Temelathe shook his
head. "You're making a mistake, Raven. Tendlathe's the person
you need on your side. But, good night, if you want it that way."

"I do," Warreven
said, and wondered, too late, if Temelathe might not be right after
all.

Marianj
: (Hara)
part-time or semi-professional prostitute who plays a passive
or woman's part.

Marijak
: (Hara)
part-time or semi-professional prostitute who plays an active
or man's part.

4

Warreven

The trouble at the harbor would
only be worse after full dark. Warreven sighed, mentally dismissing
his earlier plan to call Chauntclere or Shan Reiss, and leaned back
against the cushioned seat, resigning himself to a quiet night. As
the driver swung the coupelet onto Tredhard Street, turning north to
skirt the harbor area, he saw a familiar figure striding up the long
hill. He leaned forward to hit the intercom and said, "Pull over."

The driver's eyebrows
rose, but he did as he was told. Warreven slid back the coupelet's
window. "Folhare!"

She turned, her
practiced smile shifting to a more genuine expression as she
recognized the face. "Oh, it's you."

"Thanks." Warreven
took in her clothes at a glance, a short off-world style skirt over
heavy leggings, the low-cut traditional bodice only partly concealed
by a length of spangled gauze. "Working tonight?"

"Yeah, but you're
not buying," Folhare answered.

"No. Were you going
any place in particular?"

Folhare gave him a wary
glance. "There's a club up in Startown, I was going to go there.
There's a band of sorts, and they're open all night."

"Would you mind
company?"

"For old time's
sake, or are you really bored with Clere? 'Cause you really don't
need the money." Folhare's smile was wry. They had, briefly,
shared rooms above a land-chandler's shop before Warreven had
become a clan advocate.

"Old time's sake,
and no one's home," Warreven answered. "And there's trouble
at the harbor and I want to go dancing."

"I was down there
earlier myself," Folhare said, and sighed. "All right, but I
really do need to make my rent."

"I won't get in
your way," Warreven said. He knew better than to offer to help. He
turned back to the intercom. "You can let me out here. I won't
need you after all."

The driver shrugged,
visibly disapproving, but wasn't too proud to accept the Blue Watch
assignats
that
Warreven offered. He pulled the coupelet away decorously enough, and
Warreven stood for a moment looking up the busy street. There were
bars and dance houses here, mostly catering to the locals, but the
doors were closed, uninviting. If you weren't known to the
bouncers, you wouldn't get in--especially tonight, Warreven
thought. He said, "So where is this place?"

"Just over the hill,"
Folhare answered. She sounded tired, and Warreven gave her a wary
look.

"Business off?"

Folhare snorted and
started up the long slope. "Not great. A sale I was counting on
fell through, so not only am I left with a custom quilt and no idea
how I can resell it, but I'm short the rent."

"Lovely." Warreven
glanced sideways as he fell into step with her, unable to stop
himself from making the offer. "Is there anything I can do?"

Folhare shook her head,
managed a laugh. "I doubt it. But thanks, Raven."

"If I can loan you
anything--"

"No." Folhare
looked sideways at him, wide mouth twisted into a grimace. "I'm
still enough of a Stane not to take from Stiller."

"Oh, for God's
sake," Warreven began, and Folhare shook her head.

"No." After a
moment, she added, "Thanks."

"Suit yourself,"
Warreven said. They walked in silence toward the top of the hill,
Folhare stretching her long legs against the slope. He matched her
step easily enough, though she was taller, watching her out of the
corner of his eye. He had known Folhare since the boarding school at
Riversedge, had shared rooms with her in Bonemarche for almost six
local months, all one winter and half the spring, eighteen bioyears
ago. She had just been kicked out of her home
mesnie
then, less because she was a fem than because she wanted to do more
than just replicate the usual traditional textiles for use and the
off-world trade; he had just refused to marry Tendlathe Stane and was
afraid to go home to the ensuing controversy. Half the Ambreslight
mesnie
had been
furious that the marriage had been proposed at all, the other half
had been furious that he hadn't accepted it regardless of the
gender shift, and he himself had wanted to forget it had ever
happened. Neither he nor Folhare had had much money: he had worked
odd jobs and played trade when the rent ran short, which was more
often than not, while Folhare had worked for a sweatshop making bad
copies of traditional tunics, tried to save enough to buy the good
material she needed to make the quilts that were already starting to
win notice, and played trade. Warreven touched the edge of the vest
he was wearing, rich red silk printed with gold, scrap from a quilt
she had made him then. They could have solved all their problems by
marrying, founding a proper
mesnie
of their own and thus qualifying as adult members of their clan,
eligible for the clan subsidies that supported most indigenes, but
the option had not appealed to either of them, and had never been
mentioned aloud. Besides, Folhare was a fem, as well as a Black
Stane, and any one of those factors would have made a legal marriage
difficult. Probably his own
mesnie
would have stretched the point, Warreven admitted silently--he had
already been suspected of being wry-abed, and the
mesnie
was desperate to remedy that situation--but Folhare would never have
agreed. Or would she? he wondered suddenly, looking sideways to see
her strong, broad-boned face caught in the light from a street sign,
the planes of cheek and jaw made harsh by the deep shadows. Neither
of them were getting any younger; if they had married, she wouldn't
be hustling trade to pay her rent.

She saw him looking,
and lifted an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"Just thinking,"
Warreven answered, and Folhare gave him another smile.

"I'd be careful of
that, if I were you."

"Thanks," Warreven
said sourly, and they reached the top of the hill. The landward slope
was gentler, and the street was quiet, empty except for a work team
unloading crates outside a small chandler's. The trapdoor in the
street was open, the handlers sweating even in the relative cool of
the night air; both the driver, sitting with his arms folded on the
steering bar, and the storeowner gave them a curious glance as they
went, but the clothes were enough to make sure they passed. Seeing
them watching, Folhare made a face, but sensibly said nothing.

The club was a small
place and very discreet, the door marked only by a faintly glowing
touchpad. Folhare laid her hand against it, waiting for a signal;
only as she took her palm away did Warreven see the small brass plate
that gave the club's name.

"Jerona's?" he
said, and Folhare shrugged again.

"She runs the place."

The peephole opened
then, and a moment later the door swung back, letting a gust of sound
and sweaty air out into the street. Folhare grinned with unforced
delight and stepped up into the narrow entranceway. Warreven
followed, grimacing as the door closed behind them, doubling the
noise. The doorkeeper leaned out of his alcove.

"I know you, serram,
but serray--?"

It had been a long time
since anyone had given him the off-world title. Warreven drew breath
to answer, and Folhare said quickly, "It's all right,
he--3e's--with me."

There was a little
pause, and then the doorkeeper nodded. "All right."

The entrance hall
opened into a single long room, mechanical bars in the corners, the
dance floor brightly lit in the center, the band platform at the far
end, and tables and tabourets in the darkness along the walls. It was
almost a parody of a traditional
mesnie
hall, with the band replacing the Important Men and Women
and the Names of the ancestors and the carvings of the spirits, and
Warreven wondered if it had been done deliberately. Folhare leaned
close, the length of gauze brushing his arm, and said in his ear, "Do
you want a drink or are you just going to dance?"