Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (20 page)

"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
faitou
s
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
mesnie
s
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.