Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (21 page)

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

"Æ?"

"For you," Malemayn
said, and set it precariously on Warreven's head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Folhare took it, her
fingers cool in his, leaned close again as they started toward the
platform. "I guarantee they'll be--impressed."

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

Mhyre Tatian

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

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

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

"But you're not
drinking," Wiidfare said. "Let me get you something."

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

"Surely a little
sweetrum-and-water won't hurt."

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

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

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

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

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

"Impressive, isn't
it, mir?" Tendlathe said.

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

"It's nothing to
Gedesrede, of course," Wiidfare said, "but it's nice enough."

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

"I assume she's on
her way home now, then," Wiidfare said.

Tendlathe said, as if
he hadn't spoken, "Which
mesnie
?"

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

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

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

"Derebought,"
Tendlathe repeated. "I'll certainly look for her."

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

"--fucking
Modernists."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You see,"
Temelathe said. "They are good, aren't they?"

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

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

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

"I wouldn't know,"
Tatian said, stiff-lipped. He felt a chill run through the room.

Tendlathe said, "The
mosstaas
should
clear the market."