Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) (25 page)

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
mesnie
s, 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.